Thorns
by Kako
Summary: When a young Hermione accepts magic lessons from a stranger through the Room of Requirement, she has no way of knowing that the two are living in different times. Her knowledge becomes his greatest weapon; his obsession becomes her nightmare. HG/TR-LV
1. Sealed

Thorns

A/N: Yet another in-progress story, this stems from my desire to foray into a different style from my usual writing; in essence, I wanted to write something a bit more serious than the comical approach that I took to "Just Let Me Wake Up Already." That being said, this is my attempt at writing an extremely dark HG/LV-TR romance, and finding even more ways of slipping around the pesky "time travel" boundaries.

Rating: T (…for now…maybe xD)

Summary: When a young Hermione accepts magic lessons from a stranger through the Room of Requirement, she has no way of knowing that the two are living in different times. Her knowledge becomes his greatest weapon; his obsession becomes her nightmare. HG/TR-LV Angst/Horror

Just a heads up: Yes, this is going to be getting dark. The "horror" genre is simply a guess at where this story is heading, as I delve into the psychological connection between the two as Tom/LV becomes more and more obsessed with his pupil. That does not mean, however, that there will not be romance! There will, it just will be of the darker sort. That being said, this is not the place for my fluffy fare from my other works. I'm trying something different, so if fluff is what you want, don't read this! Simple as that ^ ^

Disclaimer: I do not now or will ever own HP. So get those lawyers off my back, will you? They're heavy.

* * *

_Chapter One: Sealed_

__

_There will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;  
There will be time to murder and create—The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot._

**Friday, 14 June, 1994**

Hermione shivered slightly, but whether it was from the cold or the adrenaline still screaming through her veins, she didn't know. Just…not even _days_ ago, she had helped save a man's life.

If one would think about it, she had been doing the same thing only two years before, and even the prior year in discovering the name of the creature that had been haunting the halls of Hogwarts. But, she agreed, it felt so much _better_ to play an active role in the saving of lives, because, really, if one saves a life, then one ignores entertaining the idea of their death.

Like most other people of her age, Hermione ignored the idea of 'death' completely. Death was something that happened to other people, something one read about in newspapers or saw reports on television about natural disasters or madmen on killing sprees. Death wasn't something that interfered personally with the life of a teenager if they could help it; because _really_, who wants to think about death when one has lived so little of their own life?

It was the last evening of classes; school would be closing tomorrow morning and all of the students of Hogwarts, Hermione included, would be going home for the summer. She was on her way to the Great Hall for the end-of-term feast, and had a sneaking suspicion that Gryffindor would once again win the House Cup. Her natural modesty would not let her seize credit for the victory, but she knew that her valiant efforts over the year were a main contributing factor to the large number of points her House had achieved.

She walked a bit faster; if she was late, the twins would certainly steal her seat.

She was not intentionally late—she was _never_ late if she could help it—but she had requested a special meeting with her Head of House, Minerva McGonagall. Truthfully, and Hermione _loathed_ to admit it, she found that the strain of keeping track of so many classes had been beyond what she would ever want to cede herself to.

Turning in her time-turner was one of the hardest things she had ever done, yet certainly the most liberating. She loved all of her classes, make no mistake about it, but Hermione Granger was not a piece of rubber to be stretched so thin till just centimeters before its breaking point. She loved learning, but she hated the way that her numerous classes demanded her time until she felt like she was _obligated_ to keep reading and attending class. Learning should never be about an _obligation_, it should be _deliberate _because one respects the acquisition of knowledge.

Her feet tapped out a quick rhythm on the stone floors of the seventh floor, tucking her robes further around her body from the draft that always seemed to permeate through the building. It was unusually cold for June, but she looked on that with optimism, hoping for an extended Indian summer when school resumed.

Her hair, loose and flapping about her face as usual, bounced on her shoulders as she slowed her pace to brush a few strands out of her eyes. She continued rubbing at them, unsure if her vision had cleared or not; certainly _this_ was something different.

There was an _archway_…no, a _door_ appearing in the side of the wall!

_Well, this is unusual_, was the sole thought that flew through Hermione's mind at seeing the thin lines of black mortar crisscrossing across the surface of what she had always assumed to be a blank wall. The sandy color of the stone slabs contrasted sharply with the dark color of the outline of the doorframe, embellished and decorated with depictions of runes and pictograms, abstract shapes and lines, geometrical repeating patters over drawn columns and arched inscribed bricks. Such fascinating _detail_ on a completely flat surface!

With difficulty, she tilted her head away; she really _was_ late.

Hermione bit her lower lip in thought. Did she have the time to investigate? A magical doorway was interesting enough, but doorways only achieved that title by _leading_ to somewhere, acting as a bridge between one space and another._ It would be a grand practical joke_, she thought sarcastically, _to have a fake doorway leading nowhere_.

If she squinted hard enough she could almost make out the impression of a doorknob! She was sure of it now, it looked _three-dimensional!_

Hermione lingered before the door, unsure whether to approach it, torn between her curiosity and the hunger pangs that had recently begun to beat within her stomach.

She took a few more steps to the right, putting herself slightly out of center with the door's wall. She looked back at it again, as if daring it to open, or move, or do something else to cement her belief that it could never, _ever_ be anything but a wall ever again.

She blinked, and felt a twinge of what only could be called fear shoot through her body like liquid ice; was the doorframe really _vanishing_?

Hermione felt her empty stomach fall with the lost chance for knowledge, for an _answer_ to the posed question of _what_ the doorframe even was, _why_ it appeared only there—for she was sure she would've seen it before had it appeared elsewhere in the school—_and_, for that matter, why it appeared to _her_, for she had never even _heard_ of such a thing as a doorframe emerging out of a wall! _It's ridiculous_, her hunger-focused brain had started to say, but she had to wryly remind herself of the recent truths that anyone else would call ridiculous.

_It's as ridiculous as magic_, she thought stubbornly.

The doorframe was almost completely gone now; _maybe it was timed?_ The analytical part of her wanted to defend, but no logic in her mind could justify what she had just witnessed. If she told anyone, _anyone_ out there, at dinner possibly, that a door had come out of a wall and then disappeared, what would they say?

_They would tell me that its only my imagination_, she thought sullenly. _They_ had no problem _imagining_ doors, and she was given a real one!

She walked the five steps to the now blank wall, and hesitantly reached out her fingers, brushing them against the slightly rough stone surface. She didn't know what she expected, and found it ironic and somewhat anti-climactic when all she felt was the texture of the stone. No doorway; it was as though it had never existed.

Her eyes widened considerably when she heard the bell toll the hour for the feast to begin, and she took off running in the direction of the staircases, hair flapping on her back and shoulders, not even giving the doorway of chance a second thought in her haste.

She would put the instance from her mind, but she would always remember the wall with that same feeling of ominous promise, a sealed box of knowledge and suffering, the joys and sorrows of both encased within its mutable lines.

However, she was not the one holding the key.

* * *

**Wednesday, 14 June, 1944**

Tom Marvolo Riddle stared in unmasked awe at the sight around him, both impressed and proud at the intensity of the magic in the place he called 'home.'

He was alone, of course, as he almost always was, in the middle of patrolling when he'd first discovered the arched doorway. He had been curious when he initially saw it—he'd recognized the runes on the door as 'eo' and 'anhelo,' meaning 'voyage' and 'intuition' respectively. He was more than suspicious of such a combination; for all he knew, the door could transport people outside of the castle, and he had no way of knowing what would be waiting for him at the other end. He took the risk, took the chance, deciding that if there was something potentially dangerous at the other side of that door, _he_ was more than capable of taking care of it.

Imagine his surprise when he found a nearly empty room; dark, and with one solitary armchair and a cloth-covered table, upon which rested a pristine first-edition copy of the book, '_Elaevating the Darke Soule.' _

His mouth had curved up into a smirk, surprised at how the strange room seemed to be giving him exactly what he wanted. He had been having trouble locating books on Dark Magic, and bringing them into the school itself had proved to be hassling and quite unnecessary, if the room was any indication. Upon opening the book, he had been delighted when he was blasted with a curse so foul it had _almost_ caught him off guard. He dispelled it easily, even more intrigued by a book that obviously wanted to judge the characters of its readers. If they could get past _this_, then clearly their dark soul _was_ ready for elevation.

_This_ time, however, Tom was faced with quite a different sight.

Tall bookshelves rose up before him, stacked to the brim so high that he had to crane his neck to see it all. The shelves were heaped with what Tom could only describe as _junk_; really, who would want a broken china baby doll or a twenty-year-old outdated transfiguration textbook?

The layers of dust surrounding everything in the room almost seemed as thick and thorough as snow, and Tom irritatedly fought the urge to sneeze upon inspecting the numerous objects in the room.

_This_ surely was different from what the room normally produced. He had been heading to Potions class, carrying a set of magically enchanted scales when he had carelessly dropped them after colliding around a corner with a tactless fifth year—it was only the fact that the student was not in his house that saved them from a particularly nasty hex—but the hinges on one side of the scales were irreparably broken. Tom had picked up the cracked pieces, wishing for somewhere to put them; there was no reason carrying around broken apparatuses. Apparently, the room agreed.

When he saw the doorway appearing, he quickly ducked inside, already building an excuse in his mind for his absence from his potions class. Head Boy duties sounded plausible, and Slughorn was always more than ready to excuse him for any 'special' project he might make up.

Tom quickly set the broken scales down on one shelf; magically-enchanted ones were expensive, he noted with distaste, and once broken could never be repaired. He would have to obtain a new set from somewhere…or some_one_.

_Hmm_, he thought idly. _Abraxas Malfoy has been bragging about how easy Potions is for him, perhaps he is so good that he no longer requires scales to do his work? _He smirked as he continued down the shelves, curiosity more than anything propelling his desire to see everything that this form of the room had to offer.

It was some kind of irrepressible urge that kept him walking; Tom felt uneasy being led through this hall of lost history, inspecting each object with the same careful scrutiny he gave everything he encountered. Each discarded book made him wonder why it was abandoned; each broken chair or tray made him guess what had led to its neglect.

Tom was someone who prided himself on his immaculate knowledge and logic. He knew exactly who he was, and he could trace his lineage back to the times of the founders of Hogwarts. Anything he did not know, he made an effort to find out, and quickly. Unsolvable puzzles were either regarded with mild curiosity and gently explored, or destroyed if they failed to keep his interest. Everything was given an equal opportunity, but these abandoned, lost, _purposeless_ items…

They were nothing, they were useless. They had nothing to offer him, and their presence alone cut the promise from anything in that room that still lived and breathed in the potential of history.

He shook the thoughts away, instead gazing at a tall marble statue, next to a large basin that seemed to be made of the same marble. He had seen books here, _old_ books that had long been banned or thrown out of publication that might be useful to him. This place had plenty of hidden knowledge, he decided, it was just buried under the dust.

_Yes_, he thought. Just like with the room's other form, he could definitely use this to his advantage. A room of _things_; _what's wrong with adding to it? _It was almost as though the school itself believed in him, giving him all the tools he'd need for his plans for his own future. He had been given the Chamber of Secrets—he would never forget the day when the basilisk called to him and he had first ventured into the cavern of his forefather's creation—and the day he discovered that doorway experienced a very similar feeling.

The moment was frozen in time, hanging over him with all the hushed anticipation of a breath, with each object in the room waiting for him to use it.

_No…not quite_.

Each object in the _world_ sat waiting patiently for him to call upon it, single it out for honor by acknowledgement, and today this room had the honor, this doorway to which he believed he held the one and only key.

He was given all the tools for his success. He believed it was already it in his pocket, he had already won; he just had yet to accept his trophy, his medal. _Nothing less than first prize._

He left the room, sure of how to call it back when he'd next need it. The doorway disappeared behind him, slowly receding back into the unremarkable stone.

Tom's own last days of school were upon him. He grinned easily at the thought of the many things he'd accomplished over the years. He'd made the most of his time at Hogwarts, that was for sure.

He glanced back at the empty stone. He had not known about it for long, its magic had almost escaped his notice. Such _potential_, a room like that contained. He would release all of it, and control it perfectly for his own means.

The room always obeys the will of its occupant, even if that person does not know themselves what they want. It sends them what they _truly_ require. What they _need_.

Tom's requirements were not beyond its reach.

* * *

A/N: **Important Notes! **This is just a "teaser" chapter, as I don't intend on continuing on with this story until I get _much_ farther with my other in-progress works. I just want to get this idea out there and see what people think about it. So, if you put this on alert, don't expect the story to pick up constant updates till around Christmas. So why, then, am I putting it up now? I love exploiting all kinds of symbolism, so a Halloween date really appealed to me^ ^

This is a completely different style for me, but I'm really looking forward to seeing where this idea goes. This is the first time I've ever written Tom/LV as a straight-out "villain," and make no mistake about it he will be a villain xD

If anyone is wondering about the relevance of this first chapter, this is just to set the stage. The next chapter will jump forward one year, and I will also be alternating chapters between Hermione and Tom's POV to keep the suspense going. I've also decided to put this into the HG/TR section because Hermione will know him as 'Tom,' even though when the story really gets cracking he'll truly be Voldemort in mind.

I am currently beta-hunting for this story, I really think I need a beta not so much for grammar purposes but to keep my plot and timeline in order, as I plan on jumping around through _several_ different years, in both Tom and Hermione's times. If anyone's interested, let me know!

Apologies for the long author's notes. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated! and Happy Halloween to everyone!

~Kako


	2. Janus

Thorns

A/N: I know I said Christmas, but I've written enough of this story to give you a chapter for Thanksgiving! Well, sticking with the holiday theme, of course xD

Thanks and a hug to everyone for their wonderful comments on chapter one: fictitious-imagination, Saene, Ruby, Sakura Takanouchi, Morbid DramaQueen10, Serpent in Red, evil-sami-poo, Evil Clone Number 7, Nobody'sNobody, Hajnalmadar, Right or Ryn, LittleAnne, Coco96, 0Rosina0, SilverLugia101, Veneficus L., xXTwilight PrincessXx, susannajulia, Gloriana the Younger, Emeloo2, and Kirtash R. Thank you all so very much!!

And now I give you chapter two. Enjoy!

* * *

_Chapter Two: Janus_

_Time for you and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions,  
and for a hundred visions and revisions—The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot._

**Friday December 25, 1994**

**9:50 pm**

Hermione sank against the cold stone floor of the second-floor hallway—it was as far as she'd been able to make it before collapsing. She sobbed into her hands, ignoring or forgetting about preserving the carefully applied makeup she had worn in preparation for what she had thought would be one of the best nights of her life.

Now, instead of butterflies raging in anticipation in her stomach, all she had was a violent stampede of guilt, anger, and sadness.

Her guilt was directed towards Viktor; _sweet Viktor_, she reflected, who had done nothing wrong short of wanting to be her friend, although that in itself now seemed to be a crime punishable by extreme indignation and isolation, according to Harry and Ron.

Although some part of her knew it was mostly Ron's fault, and towards him her anger was solely aimed. He thought…no, he _believed_ that he had the right to tell her who she was allowed to date, who she was allowed to spend time with? That she could do what she liked, as long as it was with him? That she could be overlooked, ignored until she was _needed_ by him, and then was expected to be ready and waiting for him?

_That…that…wart on the back of a Bowtruckle! _She thought angrily, wiping the remnants of cold tears off of her cheeks as new hot tears began to trickle down in their place in anger.

She grew even more incensed the more she thought of him; _it was all Ron Weasley's fault!_

When she had been told about the Yule Ball Hermione had been ecstatic like most of the other girls, but where they simpered and giggled together about just _who_ would ask them, and what color dress robes to get to match their date's hair, Hermione had thought she knew exactly who was going to ask her, and what exactly was going to happen. After accepting Viktor's kind offer, Hermione knew that Ron would never have thought of formally asking her. He _expected_ her, he did not need her nor want her around, and that thought scared her more than anything else.

Her sadness was directed towards no one but herself. For no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape the trap. She wanted to be wanted; was that so hard?

_Apparently so_, she thought. Her tears spotted the pink silk of her dress, and Hermione smoothed it with her tear-stained hands, making it look even worse. She didn't care anymore. She never cared about her appearance, but Viktor had told her that she looked beautiful in the library with ink stains on her fingertips and untamed condensation-frizzed hair. She wanted to prove his words true—_she_ did not consider herself a beauty by _any_ standards, but his smile was worth it.

And Ron's condescending frown undid it all; hours and hours of work for nothing. She didn't know why she let it bother her so much, but it still did.

She glanced around her surroundings grimly, still able to hear the music and laughter coming from downstairs. With shaky legs she stood, leaning against the cool stone wall for support. It wouldn't do to be caught out here like this; it was bad enough that half the school _heard_ her fight with Ron and Harry—Ron's voice could be loud enough to carry across the Atlantic Ocean, as far as Hermione was concerned—she did not want the combination of fake sympathy and scorn that would be heaped upon her if she was seen like this. Tears ruining rivers through her makeup; were two men not enough for her? She could hear what they would say. Poor little Hermione, having to rely on spells for her love, and even those don't seem to be enough for her.

She continued to use the wall as a brace as she headed towards the stairs. Really, she'd had enough people judge her over the years; she didn't need her best friends adding to the mix.

She climbed the stairs slowly, taking them one-at-a-time. Her speed was half due to her shoes, which even with a low heel were still fairly impossible for her to walk in. The other half was happy being in this limbo between the Yule Ball and her common room. As long as she was out here, she would not be forced to interact with either side. She could pretend that the night was not yet over, and that she would not be confronted with it tomorrow. She wouldn't have to deal with awkward questions from any younger Gryffindors still in the common room, nor would she have to face anyone from the Yule Ball with their own questions about what had interrupted her seemingly idyllic trio camaraderie.

By the time she reached the seventh floor, she could no longer hear the festive music being played downstairs. It made her feel better, like the sweeping notes were no longer holding her down in her distress. It would be even easier to forget the whole night ever happened when she erased all visible reminders of it, from the music to her uncomfortable shoes and fancy dress robes.

Sure, they say that time heals all wounds, but Hermione didn't have the time to waste. Wounds and all, she staggered back down the seventh floor hallway, the lights turned down low, considering the late hour.

By now her tears had dried over her cheeks, and fatigue began to pull at her eyelids. She needed her sleep, she still had much to do helping Harry prepare for the Triwizard Tournament, as the mystery of the egg had yet to be revealed. She frowned; Harry would undoubtedly take _Ron's_ side in their argument…she _was_, after all, in his words, '_fraternizing with the enemy_.'

_That idiot Ronald_, she thought irately. For the moment, he was all she had to blame for the intense feelings of loneliness coursing through her body.

_No one understands me_. _I just want to be wanted_. _It shouldn't be that hard!_

Against the backdrop of the shadows of the night, Hermione hardly noticed as the thin lines of a doorway crept over the wall to her right. She stepped into a patch of moonlight, suddenly aware as the door finally sprung to life, intricate scrolling patterns almost carved in to the wall, and the ever-present doorknob waiting for her final command.

In a rush of recollection, Hermione remembered the similar doorway that had appeared to her months before. She had dismissed it almost as quickly as the hourly bell had rung in her haste to return to the fold of her House. Now, it had returned.

She moved closer, brushing one hand along its surface, surprising herself when she could _feel_ the outlines. She traced them with her fingers, following the scalloped edges and swirls of the door almost to reaffirm its existence. She had never spoken about it to anyone; she was surprised at how easily its memory had left her own mind. Her hand dropped lower, where the doorknob seemed almost to surge out towards her, beckoning her inside.

She had progressed far enough in her Ancient Runes class to recognize the runes. '_Eo' for voyage and 'anhelo' for intuition…that doesn't sound too bad_.

She was faced with the same dilemma as before; to open the door, or leave it and her unanswered curiosity about what lay behind its depths behind?

If things had gone differently that night, she might not have chosen this path. She was tired of always being taken for granted, of always being on the sidelines. She wanted to do what she wanted to do, and at that moment she wanted to open a door.

The others would have counseled her about taking precautions, as who knew where the doorway might go? Hermione didn't care, she wanted to know, and decided in that instant that there was no risk at all, for why would Hogwarts send her a door that would only lead to deeper despair? It was not like she would have very much farther to go in that regard, after all.

With her mind made up, she wrenched the doorknob, finding the door opening inwards almost automatically. Now widely awake from adrenaline, Hermione took the first step across the threshold, holding her breath as she waited to be shown what was on the other side.

It was quite disappointing.

She barely noticed as the door closed behind her, hardly noticing the dull hum of omnipresent magical energy flowing through the air as she took in the sight before her.

Heaped up junk on high bookshelves, books themselves heaped on old armoires or cracked tables, thick layers of dust covering _everything_ in sight; Hermione wrinkled her nose at the musty smell.

_Well, I surely wasn't missing anything before_, she thought distastefully. _Who would want any of this?_

It was clear that the objects had been abandoned, and she assumed some of the items had been there for a very long time. She wandered up the closest aisle, inspecting some of the items to see if anything valuable or useful could be found.

She heard a shuffling sound far off to her left, but figured that it was probably just some of the objects falling off of one of the shelves, they _were_ quite high up. Even by craning her neck up to a strikingly uncomfortable level, she still couldn't see the tops of some shelves. It made her wonder how the objects had gotten there in the first place. Broomsticks? Her stomach shuddered at the thought.

She peered at the objects around her, catching glimpses of the titles of ancient worn books, broken costume jewelry, and discarded toys. A small mirror caught her eye, curiously devoid of any signs of dust; she could see her reflection clearly, along with something else interesting behind her.

Hermione turned, surprised at seeing something so out-of-place in this—for lack of a better word—infinite storage closet. Beside a tall rack of dark glass bottles rested an antique wooden curio cabinet, spider webs and dust collecting in its open shelves and drawers. What interested Hermione most, however, was the large jar of perfectly unblemished, ageless flowers resting on top, displayed in a curved glass jar. She walked closer, out into the middle of the intersection between the aisles, staring at it.

It was obviously magic-enhanced, for how else could the yellow and white lily flowers remain so perfectly in full bloom, when everything else around them was stagnant and collapsing?

Hermione's attention was fully devoted to the flowers as she walked to within an arm's length of the cabinet, reaching out a hand to touch the petals. Before she could even react, she felt the thin edge of a wand pressed lightly against her back, the even breathing of its wielder now audible when before Hermione could have sworn there was nothing at all.

"Who are you and what are you doing here."

The voice was deep yet stern, uncompromising in its harshness of the tone even as the words flew from his mouth—for it was most definitely a _he_—in an almost artistically affective grace. She turned slowly, still surprised at how dense she had been in unnoticing someone else's presence near her, and angry that someone would speak to her that harshly.

The wand was still pointing at her, and Hermione eyes bravely met those of the room's other occupant, her hands moving to her hips in mild defiance, all thoughts of the perfectly mid-bloom flowers gone.

Everything about him was strikingly normal, but at the same time twisted just enough to make it seem distinctive. He had black hair and dark eyes, a straight nose, and lips that were at the moment pulled down in a very chilling frown. He looked to be about the same age as Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, except his plain dark robes bore no Hogwarts crest, from any of the houses.

_Does he…live here? _Hermione was confused. The wand was still pointed threateningly towards her, so she decided to answer.

"My _name_ is Hermione, and I _happen_ to be exploring," she answered curtly. "And I might ask _you_ the same question. I hope I am not _bothering_ you, as this place seems to be big enough for at least a hundred people to occupy in peace."

"Exploring?" He sounded amused. Hermione was not.

"Yes, _exploring_," she answered. Really, what else could one possibly do in there?

"Why?" He asked idly; Hermione looked away, instead focusing on a spot near his shoulder. She found it disconcerting, to say the least, to look directly in his eyes. She was still on edge, but she supposed if he _did_ live here—for that was both the most logical and absurd reason she could think of—then that would naturally mean all the things in here belonged to _him_. She supposed she too would get more than a little annoyed if someone came wandering into her room and started going through her belongings.

"Curiosity," she answered, hands still on her hips. For the first time Hermione became aware just how strange she must have looked, in a formal ball gown, her makeup ruined by tears, her hair probably returning to its previous unkempt state. "Why do you ask?"

He lowered his wand, and Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. _Merlin_, it wasn't like she was _dangerous_ or anything.

"Curiosity." A wolfish smile accompanied the soft response.

She supposed his height was made all the more intimidating by her own less-than-average stature, but this odd introduction was seriously not what she had expected when she wandered through the doorway that night. She took a step backwards; it felt like she had overstayed her welcome.

"Ah, well, sorry for bothering you," she said. "I suppose I'll just be off now," she finished hurriedly, taking yet another step backwards into one of the aisles directly behind her.

Instantly, the expression on the man's face changed. She couldn't hear his shouted words as her back collided with one of the rickety bookshelves, her right elbow knocking a small red box off the shelf. She barely had time to react before it impacted with the ground, exploding as it sent small red sparks flying in all directions.

Hermione shrieked as one singed her sleeve; she barely noticed that the room's other occupant had instantly whipped up a shield, but as Hermione's hands sought out the nonexistent pockets on her dress, feelings of true, cold dread began to wash over her. She did not have her wand on her.

The sparks flew out in all directions, some painfully hitting Hermione and the rest colliding with the entire shelf behind Hermione, wobbling as pieces of the old wood were blown off. She stared up in horror as the entire, seemingly miles-high bookshelf began to fall towards her, more pieces snapping even as the sparks ceased, dust rising in voluminous clouds as objects on the shelves began to fall, ceramic pieces breaking into slivers on contact, books and toys thudding to the ground with unearthly loud noises. Hermione instinctually covered her head with her hands, trapped between the bookcases as the entire structure broke apart, falling heavily towards her. She screamed, flinging herself to the ground as her short life flashed before her eyes, every fiber of her being screaming with adrenaline as she sought some promise of safety, hoping with her last breath that she would _live_ through it as the dust clouded her vision and she waited for impact.

It never came. Hermione's fingers were clenched around her ears, hands still shaking from the shock. Dust settled around her, and she coughed as some of it unwittingly entered her lungs.

She opened her eyes, blinking as they began to water. Her knees hurt after the impact with the hard floor, and she still cringed at every shadow in the fluctuating curtain of dust as more objects began to come into view. A broken china vase lay shattered to her left, and she could see the remnants of shelves within an arm's reach of her nose. She squinted as she struggled to see something else just escaping her vision. A thin blue line appeared to encase the air before her like a bubble, and as she reached one shaking hand out to it the filmy circle disappeared with an inaudible pop, vanishing as the broken remains of the shelves above her collapsed with a thunderous cloud of dust; Hermione continued to cough frantically as she staggered forward, pushing stray pieces of wood out of the way as she sought clean air.

Her left arm was grabbed below the shoulder and tugged forward; she assumed it was the man from before, and she was right. She continued to cough even as he dropped her arm, shuddering from a combination of dust and confusion.

He waited for her to finish coughing, and Hermione finally got a good look at the scene around her. Her mouth dropped open—_more_ dust entered—but she had no idea how she could have possibly survived something like that. It looked like half the room had caved in, although Hermione only had the smallest indication of how large the room really was.

She turned back to him, trying to portray the gratitude she felt through her shaking voice. "T-thank you," she coughed out.

His expression became one of deliberate amusement. "What for?"

With a look of pride and dismissal and was that…_jealousy?_ She couldn't tell.

He continued. "_You_ did that…Hermione." He said her name with forced difficulty, but Hermione didn't notice. She was staring at her hands like she expected them to suddenly sprout tentacles or turn green; of course neither could happen. She felt normal again, as though nothing had ever happened.

"_What_ exactly h-happened?" Her hands were still shaking, and she replaced them at her sides with hesitation.

"No, I suppose you _wouldn't_ know." His words were spoken with careful deliberation, almost tenderly drenched in regret. "Your potential is being wasted at that school."

Hermione shifted her stance uneasily. It was true she felt unchallenged, but she would defend Hogwarts to the death.

She decided to change the subject, gesturing to the now-broken giant bookshelf. "I-I'm sorry about…that…" she finished feebly, unsure how to apologize for unintentionally wrecking what she assumed might be hundreds of carefully catalogued items.

His laugh startled her; it did not sound fake, but neither did it sound genuine. _Good-natured? _Maybe, at the least.

"It is easily remedied," he assured her, wand artfully waving with the slightest of movements in a spell Hermione did not recognize. Almost immediately the dust vanished, the progression of time seemingly dissolved as the broken pieces of the bookshelf flew together, items stacked back in their original places until no trace of Hermione's interference remained. She would have guessed the entire process took less than five seconds.

He acknowledged her awed expression, laughing softly again. "Hogwarts wasn't made to help people like us, was it? They'd keep us in our place forever, if they could help it."

Hermione looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"

He grinned crookedly, more of a smirk than a true grin. "Would you like to learn how to do magic like that? The things I could teach you…Hogwarts barely scratches the surface of what magic can offer. I can tell, you desire knowledge, don't you, Hermione?"

She mutely nodded, entranced by the sound of his voice and the immense _power_ behind his words and the magic he used to back them up with. And he was offering her _that_…

"I will meet you here again a week from tonight." Now his tone had changed; it was firm, strong, a command. She had accepted, although she barely realized it, but there was no backing out. Like the popped bubble of her shield, it was like the spell of the evening had vanished; it was time to leave.

He grabbed her arm again, lightly this time. She turned back.

"I assume I do not need to tell you not to repeat our meeting to anyone." The corners of his mouth turned up wryly. "But I will do so anyway. One week." He released her.

Hermione stumbled away, finally tearing her eyes away from his as she retreated towards the room's entrance.

She did not realize it at the moment, but she had not even gotten his name, just like he had successfully evaded all of her most pertinent questions, questions that were now submerged in her consciousness as the weight of the evening's events came crashing back down on her already strained emotions.

The fire of her desire for what he offered had been ignited; she could not put it out if she tried, not even if she wanted to. She did not hesitate in her acceptance.

One week could not come fast enough.

* * *

A/N: Title significance: Janus is the roman god of doorways and arches, whose two heads looked simultaneously towards the past and towards the future. Do I have to explain any more of the symbolism? xD I decided that name was a fitting title for this chapter, where Tom and Hermione finally meet.

As the 'Room of Hidden Things' becomes the same place for everyone, I consider it no stretch of the imagination to believe that this state will also cross over for anyone in _any_ time, if they ask for it.

Restating what I said in the last chapter, I will be alternating chapters between Tom and Hermione's POV, so in the next chapter, we'll get a close-up of what brought Tom to the Room of Requirement that night.

For all those wondering what exactly Hermione did to save herself, that will be explained in the next chapter in Tom's POV. I always have a logical explanation for _everything _I write about, so you will get your reason!

If you want a faster update (not Christmas? xD) then be sure to review! They mean so much to me, and it only takes a moment of your time! Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

~Kako


	3. Silhouette

Thorns

A/N: Apologies for the _incredible_ delay in updating. Take your pick of excuses: travel, college, lack of internet, Christmas festivities, etc etc. I have had literally nonexistent internet the past month, but now that I am back at school I can update again!

Chocolate-chip cookies to everyone who kindly reviewed on the last chapter: 0Rosina0, Serpent in Red, Kayyness, Hajnalmadar, IcyLugia101, Celeste, xXTwilight PrincessXx, Ryn, annukii, Nobody'sNobody, Coco96, Veneficus L., Serratia, Saene, a, LittleAnne, ButterflyOnna77, Sakura Takanouchi, Emeloo2, LiarLiarx3, ficticious-imagination, Lady Juice, Angelic-Demonic Puppet, Welshteen, Morbid DramaQueen10, HazelFromBehind, shogi, Ruby, Tragic Zander, KnoKnayme, and JaceDamian23.

I have also gone through the past two chapters and added quotes from poetry I really like to the beginnings of each chapter. I just really like the added symbolism and foreshadowing they can bring.

Anonymous review replies are at the very end.

* * *

_Chapter Three: Silhouette_

__

_I take my place among you as much as among any;  
The past is the push of you and me and all precisely the same—Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman._

**Monday, December 25, 1944**

**9:00pm**

It irritated Tom that he had to work late every night that weekend, culminating with this Monday's graveyard shift (the term aptly fitted that current situation, and the etymology amused him) where for the first time he found himself peacefully alone in the normally crowded and well-stocked "magical antiquities" store of Borgin & Burkes.

"Magical antiquities," naturally, was a pleasant euphemism for the dangerous and typically impoundable objects of intense magical and monetary value that the store did its business trading. Tom was only too happy to become a part of that cycle—another euphemism, for at the moment the only emotion he felt at all was sheer irreversible boredom—for it gave him the chance to interact with hundreds of magical items, giving him the perfect cover so he could seek what he _really_ wanted, what he knew was out there somewhere if he could only get his hands—or his wand—around it.

Tom's fingers tapped out an arbitrary rhythm on the glass countertops of the counter in front of him. He was supposed to be cataloguing new inventory, but he knew it would take him only an hour or so to do it, but his shift would not technically end until midnight. There was no need for a constant security personnel at the store, as the charms Tom had helped to implement would "take care" of any thief stupid enough to try.

Selfless as the act had appeared in the eyes of the current owner, a Mr. William Borgin, it enabled Tom to rise even more quickly through the executive ranks in the store, and he would finally be given one of the more _influential_ jobs the business required—namely, _influencing_ people to part with their generations-old magical objects and heirlooms.

He cast one perfunctory glance at the small door to the unassumingly immense storage area. He had already overseen the installment of the crates and boxes inside, and the brief glance at the list of the contents of the purchase had not impressed him at all.

_One Ming dynasty vase, supposedly owned by a Chinese emperor and a source of his luck in evading multiple assassination attempts…one Caribbean voodoo doll, which was assured by the previous owners to be in "perfect working status,"…an entire _crate _of cursed paintings…several surely overpriced dark magic tomes…and a crate with what sounded like a large animal in it…maybe an ostrich…_

Who in the hell would want the paintings, Tom didn't know. He supposed he would start with those first, as that particular cache had an extremely interesting curse. He'd heard that the eyes of those painted were the only parts of the body that moved, but that they would doggedly follow the room's occupant that was to die first.

And when they turned white, it meant that someone else in the room was to be their killer.

It was almost comical, he thought. Borgin & Burkes had gotten them cheaply from an old widower, driven so paranoid from exposure that he refused to conduct business with anyone younger than he was, so as not to see the eyes on himself. Tom grinned.

_If only they could commission a set of nice business cards_, he thought idly, watching a small group of obviously drunk Christmas partiers amble by. The Christmas holiday meant nothing to him, but it was the first that he was celebrating on his own.

Christmas seemed to mean just as little to the proprietor as it did to Tom, as he was sure his was the only lit window in the block. But, it had still enabled him to get an extremely good deal off of a few last-minute gifts bought the previous hour; the extra commissions finding themselves a nice home in Tom's pocket. And, to top off the evening, he was already getting paid double for the holiday hours, and it was the first shift he was assigned to work solo.

He rose from his seat, which creaked slightly as it swayed back and forth in his absence. No time like the present, right? Who knows, maybe he'd find some real treasures back there; he'd heard from Borgin that several of their most _promising _(by this, he really meant a combination of _deadly_ and _lucrative_) artifacts were sequestered in storage and viewable by appointment only, their existence not even known by the average customer.

Tom opened the door smoothly, lighting the room with a flick of his wand. The crate to his right immediately started squawking until Tom shut it up with a silencing charm, consecutively _accio_-ing a clipboard from the main showcase room, magically hovering it as he checked the first crate off the list. He squinted slightly to read the print, discovering with a grimace that it was not an ostrich, but some breed of _vulture_. He decided to forgo opening the crate, deciding that if it sounded _that_ ugly, it probably _looked_ much worse.

Both the paintings and the voodoo doll were checked off, but Tom noticed a small, well-hidden chip in the bottom of the vase. It was beautiful porcelain, the pattern on its sides and around the lip a light cerulean color. Tom set it back gently, smirking as he annotated the score-mark on the clipboard with his quill in thin, sloping handwriting. It was always interesting when a client tried to cheat Borgin—_at least, the _outcome_ always was_.

He thumbed through the books. They were in moderate condition, as to be expected. They would be easy to sell, and their prospective owners would pay a high sum for them as a collection.

He transferred the stack of books to the glass hutch built for just that purpose, deactivating and then reactivating the same security spell once they were inside. He vanished the empty boxes, zooming the quill and inventory list back to his desk for further inspection later.

His eyes roved the room, assessing every detail thoroughly as he wandered closer to a stack of nearly ancient parchment scrolls. He frowned upon turning them over; they were in Welsh, and completely unintelligible. The glint of a rack of distinctive daggers and swords caught his eye, and he continued further, reading the placard stating that the topmost sword would steal the soul of anyone whose blood it drew. Promising, but Tom had bigger fish to fry.

He was specifically looking for a list of potential clients. People who, through other contacts or plain investigative surveillance, were known to possess certain magical objects that collectors in contact with Borgin could arrange to front the bill. Borgin himself kept a rather extensive collection of antique cauldrons, but Tom's tastes ran slightly more extravagant.

Tom easily found the appropriate ledger in the lowest drawer of a roll-top desk shoved in one corner. The cover was worn leather, but the ink inside was obviously charmed, with a list of potential and prior clients from their store and those of the other "magical antiquities" businesses located in London. Customer loyalty was a very loose term in this industry, where the stores' proprietors would use any means necessary short of murder—blackmail, extortion, etc—to obtain the artifacts they desired.

Tom, of course, had no such qualms.

Each name was listed with a corresponding address, last date of commission, and a small shorthand description of their buying or selling pattern. Certain patrons wanted antique cauldrons, some wanted armor or weapons from the fourteenth century. Tom ran one finger down the list, tensing as he turned the pages over. Nothing.

He flipped one more page. These dates were older, some happening more than ten or fifteen years prior. He froze, his index finger hovering over the name, the dark blue ink growing more and more pronounced in his mind the longer he stared at the name.

_Hepzibah Smith. Jan 28, 1927 Slytherin Locket_

There were several more dates below that; apparently the Smith name owned quite a lot of goblin-made jewelry and armor, but Tom wasn't concerned with any of that. As he stared at the name, a growing sense of satisfaction began to creep into his body, starting with his fingers, which were gripping the ledger far tighter than necessary, and ending with his lips, which pulled back in a smirk.

Just finding any object belonging to one of Hogwarts' founders had been Tom's goal, but finding that Borgin & Burkes had sold an object owned by Slytherin was an unexpected bonus. His need for such an object had increased considerably over the past year, and Tom needed a way to get to the locket quickly.

He folded the cover back into place, slipping it into the drawer and sliding it closed. He had a few ideas that might work, but such a fragile procedure would require strategic planning. Tom was willing to negotiate with time.

He was in a much better mood, considering that he still had just under two hours left on his sentence. He left the storage room, ignoring the heavy thudding sound the door made when it closed behind him.

Tom bypassed the desk, his attention drawn to the large oaken cabinet against the back wall. Tom had no idea how long it'd been in the store, and no one had ever been the slightest bit interested in it before, probably because its two large main doors had a tendency to stick together.

He pulled the right door open first, giving it a sharp yank

The surprisingly heavy doors opened slowly, yet the light from the showroom barely penetrated the depth of the cabinet. Tom squinted, his right hand moving from supporting the large drawer to tracing the grain of the wood. The cabinet was seemingly bigger than he'd thought…there almost seemed to be some sort of light illuminating the back of it, if only he could see more of it.

He leaned in further, the wood grain becoming rougher under his fingers. He released his hold on the other door, He put a foot on the wooden base of the cabinet, surprised by how solid it was. It was odd; it was almost like he could hear _whispering_ coming from the other side! _But that couldn't be possible, there's nothing in here_. _I'm just wasting my time_.

He made to draw back when the heavy door slammed shut into his back, forced closed by its own weight. Tom stumbled into the cabinet, the unexpected pain near his spine and his surprise both stunning his reflexes. He turned just as the other door snapped closed, the connection obviously jamming as Tom tried to push open the doors from the inside.

The left door gave first, and with a shove it budged just an inch. Tom had already decided never to go near this Venus Fly-trap of a cabinet again when he noticed that there was no light coming from the outside room.

Tom hefted the door open the rest of the way and climbed out, instantly feeling the adrenaline rise to the surface of his mind at discovering where he now was.

Hogwarts. Seventh floor.

He peered down the corridors, relieved that no one else had been walking the hallway at that particular hour. _He _had no plausible reason for being there, and it would have been very bad indeed if a professor—or worse, Albus Dumbledore—had seen him here. He would have to leave immediately.

_I need a way out of here_, he thought. The doors of the cabinet had once again closed behind him, and he wrenched one open again. _I suppose this cabinet will transport me back to Borgin and Burkes_, he thought. He wondered how many people knew of its power. _Borgin certainly doesn't_, Tom realized with a smirk. The cabinet would be worth its weight in gold if news of its secret got out, although its double here would most certainly be destroyed in such a situation. He prepared to climb back in, still feeling distrustful of the imposing cabinet sitting idly by the wall, when something on the opposite wall caught his attention.

Dark black swirls had appeared over its surface, crisscrossing into a set of giant double doors adorned by curliques, leaves, and vines, almost in an imitation of wrought iron against the sand-colored stone.

Of course Tom had visited this room many times over the course of his Hogwarts career, but he wondered why the room was calling to him now. He abandoned the cabinet, shutting the doors before approaching the wall. Either avenue, he had to avoid detection as quickly as possible, and this malleable room had always given him perfect ammunition in the past. He decided to see what it was offering him this time.

It hadn't let him down. In fact, it had surpassed his highest expectations for his enjoyment of the evening.

What he had encountered in that room was extraordinary. He would almost be envious if he wasn't about to control it eventually anyway. It would just take longer, he decided, to train the girl in his cause as surely as he would hone his own abilities. He would not let something like that go to waste, not when he recognized just how _valuable_ her potent abilities were. What they could be to him.

He had found a girl.

She had surrendered her name without much interrogation: Hermione. It was a Shakespearean name, from _The Winter's Tale_—what _would _have been a fabulous play, if not for the happy ending—but then again, he had always far preferred the tragedies.

It was the oddest circumstance; the room had sent him to the chamber of hidden things, where he had found a girl, dressed in very stunning formal dress robes, and exploring _his_ domain. He was momentarily impressed that the room had let someone else in, but he had still been wary of revealing his presence to anyone. He had followed her as she explored, and she was getting too nosy for her own good. Tom himself had hidden various things over time there, as well as relocating other objects he found valuable to what he deduced was the most secure spot in the room. He could not let her get any farther into the room, so he stopped her. Before he could take her out—after all, the room would make a wonderful hiding place for a body—an entire shelf had collapsed on her, but she had managed to keep its contents from crushing her with an impressive display of magic.

Even more impressive, she had used magic while he had held her own wand in his hand.

Even stranger, she didn't even appear to know just what she had done, just how _rare_ control of power like that was. After a wizard's connection with a wand, they seemingly lost the ability to channel magic themselves, like the wish-magic of children and toddlers. _They_ squander that generous gift, when in their ability holds all the promise of the world. And what do they use it for? Trifles, like candy or flowers; ephemeral, transient things. _He _had used them for much more, exploring his own power as he expanded his limits, evaluating life as he brought death to small creatures like Billy Stubbs' rabbit, conversing with snakes as he controlled those too weak to be like him. He _wielded _his power; he could do nothing else with it.

Wish-magic was only available through one last outlet for adult wizards, one final instantaneous moment where they could feel the literal connection with the fibers of magic flowing through their spirit as they used its power through the force of their will alone to move their physical bodies through its omnipresent stream of continuity. Apparition required no spell to complete; it was the ultimate channeling of magic through a person's entire being, allowing it to wash over them completely until it enveloped them in its fold, sensing the desire of the apparator in their mind to tell the magic where to take them.

He had no idea why he'd offered to her what he had. _Tutoring_ a _student_…did he really even have the time for that? It was on a complete impulse, something that he experienced so rarely that it always came as a bit of a surprise when it did. _He _realized what she had done; by now the feel of magic was so close to his very core that he recognized the specific brand of magic instantly. It struck him with a strange un-experienced feeling, one he could barely put a name to except for the riveting curls of envy seeping through his limbs, spreading from some center deep inside his chest. He scoffed at the idea that it could be _jealousy_…for why should he _want_ that power that she so easily channels when he has gained so much more in giving it up?

Tom had done vast research on wish-magic, thinking of its vast usefulness if applied to his current pursuits. The solution was easily spelled out, while at the same time locking away any chance he had at grasping its fickle control ever again.

It all had to do with the possession of a wand. _Ingenious, really_, he acknowledged begrudgingly, that the object that was meant to strictly channel magic actually impeded control of its most basic, primal form. Wands, he had discovered, created an instantaneous bond between the caster and magic that could only be accessible through the thin piece of wood and a particular incantation; but if that were all that was needed, then _any_ creature with a hand and mastery of speech could use it. Even the wand's bond superceded the magical potential running through every wizard's blood, binding the user to them more strongly over the passage of time, quickening the process through the use of more complex and demanding spells, culminating with the ultimate use of a wand's channeling abilities, forging an unbreakable seal over any _possibility_ of regaining control over wish-magic—the most restricted, malevolent expressions of magic possible; the Unforgivables.

Tom certainly had cast his fair share of _those_, each use of one of the three curses sticking out in his mind clearly—hundreds of times; _thousands_, maybe. He didn't keep count, just watched as the memories rolled by. Casting an Unforgivable wasn't something a person could forget—_part of the charm, really_, he thought sarcastically—but he didn't mind. He liked the control. He liked knowing that he held a person's complete prospects in his hand; their life or death, even. Fear inspired devotion, submission.

Hermione's mind had been difficult to read, but Tom attributed that more to the intense magic swirling around the room than a lapse in his own abilities. It was like wading through a thick fog, and her mind was the lighthouse. He had wanted to know if she had ever used wish-magic before; instead, all he had retrieved from her mind and memories were a garble of classical music and dance steps layered over a recitation of the page on the Founders in _Hogwarts, a History_. She was either very good at hiding her emotions, or he had been totally off the mark in attempting to scope her brain. It really didn't matter; he had gleaned enough from her reactions to his presence to know that theirs was a secret she would keep. No one would know of their lessons, and she would eventually turn to his side. He prided himself on his skills of persuasion.

Immediately upon returning to Borgin & Burkes Tom checked the time from a pocketwatch on display; he had approximately fifteen minutes before his shift would end and he would clock-out to return to his apartment. He never called it his _home_; after all, he had just left _there_.

He thought about the best way to permanently prevent anyone from buying or moving the cabinet, finally deciding on using a cleverly concealed Permanent Sticking Charm on the feet of the cabinet to thoroughly stick it to the floor. Borgin would never notice; _and, _thought Tom, _he does not have the skills necessary to remove the spell anyway_. He had thought about cursing the cabinet so that _no one_ would ever wish to buy it, but that magic would be too easily traceable. The cabinet was plain enough to be ugly next to all of the more elaborate magical antiques in the store, a curse in itself, and probably the reason it had gone for so many years unsold.

He would test the girl's potential the following week. He could tell, his power had amazed her. As it should. Yet, with the _promise _of something similar; power of her _own_, she would never even look back.

She would be at his right hand. He would control her in every and any way he could.

* * *

A/N: I always find it funny when people write about "wandless magic" as the panacea for any magical plot dilemma, without realizing that 'wandless' and 'spell-less' are two entirely different things. There is actually canon evidence for spell-less magic, but only occurring in magically gifted children/toddlers and through abilities like Apparition. So, why not expound upon those theories? When I refer to it, however, I will always call it "wish-magic," to use its canon name and to avoid the stigma of wandless/spell-less.

Next chapter should hopefully be up soon! I'm using the poll in my profile page to determine my updating schedule, so go vote if you haven't yet!

Reviews make my day!

~Kako

* * *

_Anonymous review replies_:

Ryn: Decent grammar is my best friend! xD I hope this chapter answered all your questions about Hermione's magic! And feel free to ask if you're unsure about anything or want something clarified.

Annukii: Thanks so much for the motivation! I'm glad you felt my story was nice enough to merit a review! =D Hope to hear from you again in the future!

Serratia: If you have any questions about the plot or anything else, just ask! And I agree, sometimes they can get similar, that's why I try to avoid clichés like one would avoid the plague, or spiders, etc. xD "And without timetravel"…whoever said that? *whistles innocently* xD

a: *Hugs* You have no _idea_ how awesome reviews like that make me feel. Well, maybe you do, but thanks SO much!! And I completely see what you mean, and I will make sure to amp up the detail in Hermione's next chapter. And, of course, Evil!Tom is a given. In this story he's not at Hogwarts any more, but I'll see what I can do about giving him some more people to interact with. And you should keep reading HG/TR, there's some other really awesome stories out there (although I wouldn't disagree with you about mine, lol xD) Thanks again!

Ruby: Yup, Tom and Hermione are a few years apart in age in this story, I think that will add even more to her admiration of him and his degree of control over her as more time passes and their relationship deepens. Plus, I'll always give a date for each chapter so you have some canon context for what else is going on around the sidelines and which timeframe it's taking place in.


	4. Lessons

Thorns

A/N: I got a request to move up the action, so I re-invented my plans for this chapter, combining and condensing as much of the exposition as possible so we can move on to the more interesting parts. I know I wouldn't be writing here at all if I didn't have readers, so I'm always happy to take any requests into consideration. Anonymous review replies are at the end.

A partridge in a pear tree to everyone who reviewed on chapter three! Redfoxrose, lilly-nix, Serpent in Red, JaceDamian23, 0Rosina0, Ryn, Saene, Coco96, hpfanf, maripas, Sakura Takanouchi, My Misguided Fairytale, RandomGal930, Emeloo2, bella, ncy555, Morbid DramaQueen10, suttel slayer, shogi, xXTwilight PrincessXx, Celeste, Chasing, Voldemort, Lizzy likes the hot guy, fancyshoelaces, shadowglove, thistlebush, David Fishwick, Nicoteen, Patricia95, Alyssa, ~me~, x, SriHellgirl25, satoz, silver screen icon, seriana14, Faith Crain, and FA-AL. Thank you all!

* * *

_Chapter Four: Lessons_

___'Fondest greetings to you all,  
A few instructions now before rehearsals start'—The Phantom of the Opera._

**December 31, 1944/94**

"Stop. You're doing it all wrong." Tom's berating remark was only the most recent on a long list of that evening's criticisms. "You're using up too much of your energy, too fast. You need to learn _control_."

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes, in her mind contemplating just _how_ good her control in that particular department was going.

"Yes, Professor," she responded, gearing up to try again. He held her wand; he'd asked for it immediately upon greeting her the previous hour when she'd walked into the Room of Requirement to see him re-arranging the space surrounding last week's fixed shelf, charming objects swiftly into new locations and lining up others, cleansing the dust from every surface around them.

She was not facing him, or else Hermione would have seen the glimpse of a triumphant smirk adorning his face as he took in her address. It had been her own idea to refer to him as such, and he could hardly complain. If he was not working at Borgin and Burkes, he might even consider teaching at Hogwarts, just to hear the reverence in others' voices in the same way that she spoke. Her respect for him was overwhelming, and he took every chance he could get to impress her with his knowledge of magic; it was one more way to further cement his position as her instructor and source—the _only _source—she could attain such knowledge.

"Again."

She was working on moving objects. Start with something simple, Tom had told her. The trunk thirty feet in front of her was heavy and thick, constructed of walnut and bound with leather straps and buckles. She had just succeeded in moving it empty, but then Tom had filled it with the many books littering the shelves around them.

She concentrated, the strain from her effort causing sweat to break out along her temples and hairline, matting the hair to the back of her neck. She tried not to think about how uncomfortable the sensation was, but the fleeting look of approval and praise she'd garnered from her new instructor was enough motivation to want to be able to control this latest stage in her new power. After all, she'd never met a _normal _spell she couldn't cast correctly the first time.

She wanted to succeed. She wanted to learn. She had to, or else he might leave her, and the knowledge he possessed would never be hers. Could she go back, after she'd finally had a taste of what he could teach her?

Slowly, the trunk raised off the floor by several inches, but it was wobbling so sharply that the sound of the books shifting inside broke her concentration, and it hit the floor with a resounding bang, topping over onto its side.

Hermione feared for the books for a moment; she noticed her instructor had left the antique first editions on the shelves and only summoned the illimitable textbooks and memoirs into the trunk, but a book was still a book. She glanced at him.

"Nice work, but you do not have to use your arms like you are waving a wand. Wish-magic does not require a physical outlet, all the effort should be mental."

Hermione frowned, letting her shoulders slump. His mild congratulations were far overshadowed by his critique of her mental capabilities.

Tom frowned; this was going a lot slower than planned. What had been the trigger the first time they'd met? Her power was drowning him in waves; the strength of it still made the barriers surrounding her mind fuzzy and nearly impenetrable. The only thoughts he could discern right now focused on Hermione in class, mastering spells at an alarming speed only comparable to the promptness in which she raised her hand during class. He suppressed a smirk; she was just as annoyed as him at how slowly she was progressing.

He'd guessed it right: emotionally, she had been wholly preoccupied with saving herself, and had acted on instinct. Now, all he had to do was get her suitably emotionally charged enough to tap into that reserve of power.

"Hermione," he began, formulating a strategy in his mind as quickly as he spoke the words, "the night we met you seemed particularly…upset." He recalled the remnants of tear-streaks that had stained her cheeks, the way she had spoken to him so bitterly, and the way she tensed at his words now. He kept his own reaction in check, projecting concern and interest where there would be triumph.

"It was…this stupid boy I know," she began, her voice dropping in volume with each word. "He said…some very mean things. It wasn't his fault…" she trailed off, unsure what to say next.

"Whose fault was it? Not yours," he prompted.

"No. It _was _his fault. He doesn't…_understand_."

Tom had found the root of her problem, and proceeded to nurture it the way one would a carefully tended garden. It wouldn't do to treat her like a weed; she was anything but.

Tom _tsked_, trying to draw out her ire. "Of course he doesn't. How could he possibly understand you? He does not have power like yours. He is nothing like you. _I _understand perfectly."

He reached out one sympathetic hand, brushing her hair over one shoulder and tucking the loose curls behind her ear. Physical contact was one way to establish trust, he knew; he had read all about these things.

"How could he possibly know? What do you have in common?" He asked the question even though he already knew the answer.

"Nothing." She paused, searching her brain for things they shared. From the images he snatched from her mind, he knew she would find nothing. The level of desperation she showed in her search irked him. No one else deserved that amount of concentration from her. She should not care so much.

"…we're in the same house?" She offered cautiously.

"Which house?" He asked.

"Gryffindor," she replied, drawing out a smile. Tom frowned; the weed had sprouted and he had to crush it.

"You should not give him one tenth of your concern." Tom had to keep from spitting the words. "He does not possess your power"—really, he had no idea who the boy in question was, only that he had flame-bright hair as red as the wretched House from which he came, but his words seemed to have the desired effect—"and he wants to hold you back. Don't let _him_ use you. He wants to watch you fail, to be superior to you."

"What…" and here Tom paused, unsure if he was pressing her too far, and then decided firmly that he wasn't, continuing. "What would you do to him, if you could? To punish him? He deserves to be punished, does he not?"

"Of course he does," she said, eyebrows scrunched together in contemplation. From the flickers he got from her mind, Tom approved. Spiders, fire, detentions, humiliation. None were particularly strong, but at least she had the proper motivation.

He planted the seed. "Make it happen."

"Alright."

She cast her gaze around the room, finally settling on a dark wooden cabinet topped by a glass vase filled with lilies, hating how something like them could never die, never change.

She'd show them change.

Her eyes narrowed just slightly enough for Tom to notice as the jar shattered from the intense heat radiating from the now burning flowers, leaves shriveling up as the petals blackened before dissolving into ash. He noted how, while the jagged splinters of glass had shot out in every direction, the pieces aimed at them had collected carelessly at their feet, stopped by a nearly invisible shield Hermione had unknowingly pulled up for the two of them. The pride grew deeper in his chest; she had sought to protect him. She had learned lesson number one. He moved forward in his syllabus.

The fire remained burning, suspended over the cabinet even as the varnish began to peel and crack from exposure to the heat. She seemed to have no intention of stopping, so he waited, seeing how long she could contain it.

As quickly as it had been lit, the fire extinguished, dropping the ash to the cabinet's top to meet with the blackened wood and puddles of melted, re-forming glass.

"Good," he told her. "That's enough for tonight. You may leave."

She nodded, adrenaline still flowing through her veins at the thought of what she'd just done. If she could do _this_, what _else _was she capable of?

Before she turned to leave, he caught her arm softly, and she turned back to meet his gaze.

Lesson number two in establishing trust:

"Call me Tom," he told her.

* * *

**January 7, 1945/95**

"Why don't you use wish-magic, Tom?"

He was beginning to regret ever telling her his name, only because she seemed to take every available opportunity to use it, and it was irritating him tremendously. He put on another faux-cheerful smile, noting the indefinite '_don't_' over the precise, final '_can't_.'

"My power lies elsewhere. I don't need it," he answered casually.

"It's because you can't, isn't it, Tom?" She asked. He studied her face closely; it was an innocent question, to her. She meant no malice by her words, however truthful they were. She was too smart for her own good.

"Yes," he answered. He had no reason to lie to her about this.

"Then why can I do it?" From her expression, it was clear to him that she had been thinking about this on her own for quite some time. He wondered what her own conclusions had been.

"It's because you're special. You have power."

She sighed heavily. "Power corrupts. The political system is proof enough of that."

"So you agree it should be changed?"

The question startled her, but after a moment of thought she nodded. "Power does more bad than good. I've seen it."

"Strength like yours and mine is above good and evil," he said confidently.

Hermione blinked. …_When did we start talking about good and evil?_ Tom reminded her of so many different people, it was hard to get a straight read on him. The way he spoke about magical merit, power, and prestige, he sounded like her own Headmaster, but he physically reminded her so much of Harry, torn between supporting her or Ron while he attempted to remember how to ask forgiveness; it did not take a genius to understand where his loyalties would lie, _boys will be boys_, but being close to Tom reminded her of what she missed most yet could not have. But his _eyes_, they reminded her of nothing and everything at once. She was sure she'd never seen anyone look so haunted or so old, the wisdom and experience from some unknown trials or terrors aging him from the inside. She frowned; he would not let her know him better, and she hated that.

"What do you believe?" He asked her suddenly, his eyes so fixed on hers that she had to look away. It was like he was trying to see into her soul; for what purpose, she did not know.

"Power can be used for good, but most only destroys," she said with finality.

"Yes," he said, again with a tone so casual that Hermione believed it was anything but. "What good is power if there is no sun to rise in the morning?"

_Besides_, he thought, _it is not destruction! It is a rebuilding, a rehabilitation! We are not destroying the world, we are curing it of all its past iniquities and mistakes! And she…she will be the cure. She will help me immunize the world…cleanse it…it is in such desperate need of cleansing._

"But you can't control the rising of the sun any more than you can control humanity," she argued.

"Perhaps," was his response.

* * *

**Saturday, January 13, 1945**

**2:58pm**

He'd moved his timetable up; it pleased him that things we going according to schedule.

It had not been difficult to secure an appointment with the reclusive Ms. Hepzibah Smith, just as it had not been difficult to procure some of the supposedly "destroyed" remnants from the ancient crown jewels, a particularly stunning ring set with a giant emerald clustered with diamonds and a medal with multiple crosses and a fleur-de-lis in one corner. Both were gold, and incredibly valuable by Muggle standards. Tom was a certifiable _master _in the art of subtly persuading people to part with their prized magical or historical artifacts, and this occasion should be no different. He'd done his research well—Hepzibah lived alone, and had scorned the remainder of her family by running off with the bulk of the family's wealth—or so they claimed, not that they had any proof of the matter.

He had left a calling-card, silver embossed with his name, with a house-elf of hers, arranging for a meeting that day at three o'clock, the perfect time for tea; rich, old women seemed to serve the highest quality of tea, and Tom would take full advantage of her hospitality. Procedure dictated that he not remove the items in question from the store, but Tom knew from experience that the sale would be that much quicker if she was able to see the acquisitions firsthand, so he had brought the ring, with the intention to bring any additional pieces to create a valid reason for a second meeting.

The house-elf showed him in and left him waiting in a parlor richly decorated in varying shades of yellow and pink, windows frosted like a cake with excessive curtains and lace, silk upholstered chairs and a Turkish rug anchoring the large space. He sat in one of a pair of yellow armchairs, refusing to even _consider _the low-backed pink sofa—self-professed dark lords did _not _even _associate _with the color pink, but just looking at it was enough of a strain on his eyes.

A middle-aged woman entered the room who could only be Hepzibah Smith, and Tom rose from his chair to give her a courteous bow before moving to take her hand, holding it gently in his own.

"_Miss _Smith? Permit me to introduce myself, I am Tom Riddle, from Borgin and Burkes. I believe I have some items you would be interested in seeing—"

Just as he'd thought, Hepzibah giggled and blushed when he called her '_miss_,' although he figured at this rate, the house-to-house floo cosmetic vendors would have even greater success than he, if they knew how to play their cards right.

"Please, _Tom_," she said, and he had to reign in a grimace at the simpering way she exaggerated his name, like they were already old friends, "let's not discuss business until we've had some tea and gotten to know each other a little better!"

Like a true gentleman, he led her back to the cluster of chairs and seated her in the armchair opposite his, sitting only after she had made herself comfortable. He smoothed over his incredulous expression as he assessed her again; it looked very much like she had purposefully dressed to match the room, in a voluminous dress with slightly puffy sleeves in yellow with a bright pink sash and gloves. It was sickening, and almost enough to make him lose his appetite.

"Hokey!" She called, waving over the same house-elf who had let him in. "Bring the tea!"

She was using the same kind of voice that most girls used on him when they were under the impression that they were being flirtatious and that the feeling was reciprocated. It was, he noticed, the same kind of voice girls tended to use on small, furry animals, like cats or miniature dogs or owls. You never saw a _normal _girl cuddle a _snake_, and for good reason.

Tom accepted the tea and small multi-leveled tray with different tiny sandwiches, cookies, jam-filled pastries, and chocolates. He took a sandwich first—cucumber, one of his favorites, and watched amusedly as Hepzibah took a cookie, attempting to take a dainty bite, completely oblivious to the crumbs spilling down the front of her dress.

"Miss Smith," Tom began, but she interrupted him again. "_Please_, Tom, call me _Hepzibah_."

"Hepzibah," he agreed, fighting the urge to empty his stomach or flinch away from her happy, triumphant smile.

"I represent Borgin and Burkes, miss, a most reputable dealer in magical antiquities and other rare or unique artifacts, and it came to my attention while looking at an old ledger that we have not paid you a visit in quite a while—we sold you the goblin-made mirror in the entry hall, did we not?"

He already knew the answer to that question after his research, but Hepzibah would be that more pliable for information after the heaps of attention he was paying her.

"Yes, I believe you did!" She said. "A beautiful piece, that one."

"A perfect example of sixteenth-century worksmanship," he said. "We would hate to feel that we are discourteous to our clients in any way, so I have brought you some pieces I have personally selected that I feel you would want to add to your…collection."

Borgin and Burke's reputable 'courteousness' to its customers was merely a courtesy, as any witch or wizard of questionable enough integrity to shop there in the first place was surely well-versed in the magical definition of _vengeance_, and the store had no desires to see itself the target of a client who felt had been cheated or slighted in any way. Tom prided himself on his talent in tricking the store's customers, but that did not mean he was careless in his efforts. All his work in the past was merely practice for thismoment.

"My collection!" Hepzibah halted the progress of her tea cup, inches from her lips, and returned it to her saucer as she took Tom's carefully laid bait. "I wish you could see some of my pieces! I do not generally display them openly, you know, it would be far too easy for a thief to take advantage of my fortune!"

"Madame, I regret to say that I am here on official business, but I would be…more than happy to return later on a more…personal level to view your collection." It took a lot of willpower and an equal amount of acting practice to keep a straight face and pause in just the right places while he retrieved the lure, watching as Hepzibah eagerly followed his every word, keen on any way to get the young wizard back into her house.

"Now, I expect you to keep that promise, Tom," she chided, taking another sip of tea.

"Let me show you these pieces…" he reached into the satchel at his feet, withdrawing the jeweler's box containing the ring. He pulled it out first, knowing that while it possessed the least importance of the two he brought, it was by far more visually impressive.

Her eyes lit up when he opened the box, displaying the massive emerald.

"Tom! It's beautiful! I have to have it!"

The thought struck Tom that she was like a niffler, hiding shiny gold things around her house, pulling them out to look at her reflection and marvel over the fact that it was _she _who possessed them, burying them back into their bureaus or hat-boxes or wherever else she decided to hide them. He saw splashes of golden or bronzed antique combs or pins from glimpses at glass-fronted cabinets on his way in, but he was sure the scarcity of the display belied the true depth to her possessions.

He would have to bring out the pleasure of _showing _those items, putting them on display for others—for _him_, in reality, for who else but he was such an expert on the acquisition of trust? He would tempt her with smiles and flattery and shiny jewelry to cosset, and she would unknowingly hand him the key to his next transformation.

There was only _one _thing that could possibly make this day any better.

* * *

**Still January 13, 1945/95**

Tom came to the conclusion rather startlingly as he watched the girl repel more of his attacks, slashing through the multitude of faceless dummies he'd hastily transfigured from the more useless objects around him.

She was beautiful.

Not in the common sense of the word, where beauty meant an extra flash of skin or a crimson lipstick, but she was beautiful in the way that a storm is beautiful, even as it washes away whole cities along the coastline or countless lives in its pursuit of inveterate cleansing.

The jewelry he had just tempted Hepzibah Smith with was beautiful too, in the way that only a rare, one-of-a-kind piece could be—that was Hermione's beauty. He'd never felt a magic like hers, so strong yet so pure. It was that very same purity that made it so strong, and it pleased him that it was _he _who was trusted with cultivating such a gift. She was unique, and that made her beautiful.

Her anger was even more so. When he looked at her alongside all of the insignificant trash that filled the room, he wondered why she seemed so at home here, in these forgotten ruins, representing _centuries_ of humanity's failures. Everything here was broken in some way. They were the exceptions. Always.

He intended to distance himself from the girl as much as could be done, but he was forced to play the part she wanted in order to gain her confidence. She would never be of use to him until she knew just who she was, however indirectly, working for.

It was irrational, he decided, to come here and be with her. His waking thoughts were becoming to focus on her. The fact that she had managed, however unconsciously, to rip apart the routine he had so carefully crafted so quickly stung a little. He understood power; he understood knowledge, occupation, and destruction. He did not understand her.

That would have to change.

They would be marked by the henchmen of history; he resolved to make sure she would never leave his side. He must become all she would ever need; only then could she forget the past that tied her down so resolutely, and she clung to without a second thought.

_Well, all endeavors worth anything at all shouldn't come easy_, he thought. _When I am ruling over everything she will thank me for what I will give her_.

Tom returned to his small flat and planned how he would kill Hepzibah, when the moment arrived. It may take months or even years to gain access to the locket, and while he was a patient man it never hurt to plan early. He remembered the tea, and decided that she could drown in it. A fitting death for one whose only purpose was to provide his power the expanse it needed. His soul was such a small price to pay, for what little he needed it. It was such a bargain. Time ticked away before his eyes, he could see it, but he would be sure of his part in the world. He would be eternal, he would be king.

But, he was not there yet, and it bothered him more than it ought.

* * *

**January 20****, ****1945/95**

His bad mood continued into the next week, and Hermione, the perceptive witch that she was, picked up on it immediately.

"Why are you so stressed?" She asked.

Tom paused, feeling his insides tighten into unfamiliar coils as their session was interrupted. Smoothly, he replied, "I have not yet eaten dinner. Forgive me, I did not mean to worry you."

"But you should always eat three regular meals, Tom!"

He fought to keep his temperament in check, because she was now examining him like a Healer, surely picking apart his paleness or thinness and attributing health detriments to each.

"I, um, think I can help you." Hermione pressed her hands together quickly, and when she opened them up a medium-sized pear sat in her palm. She handed it to Tom, looking quite pleased with herself.

"I've been practicing," she explained.

He took the fruit, turning it before his eyes. It _looked _real. It smelled real…he took a bite.

He ate all but the core and stem, vanishing those away into nothingness. Her power was developing nicely, _very_ nicely. The taste of the pear was the only thing wrong. It was slightly off; it tasted far too sweet.

* * *

**January 27, 1945/95**

"Thank you," he said graciously, Hermione handing him a conjured apple this time. They were seated in a pair of conjured cushions, hers a dark red, his a deep emerald green. Hermione turned her own apple around in her hands.

"I wish I could give you more," she said. "You must know how special you are to me. You've taught me so much…"

She looked up, and Tom's eyes caught hers. "The gift of your magic is invaluable, and you have trusted me with cultivating yours. That is all I ask."

"Is there nothing I can give you?" She asked.

He paused. She did not know what she was offering, and it would not do to put her gift to further use, yet. His lips stretched into a slight smile; she would not notice that it did not reach his eyes. "Nothing, no. I'm sorry."

"You're sure?" She looked doubtful. She was not ready to hear what he would demand, and, besides, he would not want her to leave school to do it."Anything? What would you have me give?"

"At the moment, nothing. I am quite adamant about it."

Her shoulders slumped. "Alright…" She bit into the apple, chewing. They sat in silence, eating. She _had_ been practicing; the apple was perfect. No blemishes, the skin an even, deep red, the fruit perfectly ripe. He vanished the core, like before.

"Sickle for your thoughts?" Tom asked. _If she wanted to sell them for that price, let her, but they are worth far more than that_.

Hermione paused in-between bites. "I was thinking, it would be great if my friends could be here—"

Tom stiffened.

"—they'd really benefit from this kind of instruction, I wonder, and I think that—"

"_You can't_." He had not anticipated how dark and heavy his voice would sound, speaking those two words. "I mean, it would not be for the best. Think about it. They are already jealous of you, are they not? Besides, I would not offer my services to just _anyone_, surely you realize that."

"I do not like keeping secrets," Hermione mumbled into her apple.

"Then do this for me," Tom said. "This is just between the two of us."

_No one else shall ever be allowed_.

* * *

**February 3, 1945/95**

Nothing of extreme importance happened during this particular lesson, Tom noted. He would have to teach the girl a little more about the consequence of concentration, or her lack thereof. He asked what was on her mind, like before, but this time she lied, he could tell. He frowned; _that _was a skill he had not intended to impart.

He'd figure it out eventually, what was so important that it was distracting her from _him_. They spent so little time together as it was; the least she could do was stay wholly focused on him.

He tried searching her mind for his answers but it remained as fuzzy as usual, and he found it ironic that during a break she handed him a peach.

* * *

**February 10, 1945/95**

"Galleon for your thoughts?" Tom asked her. There didn't seem to be a limit to what Hermione could do, but it had mostly been simple practical applications of her wish-magic. She wasn't quite ready to duel with him yet, but she would be, soon.

Hermione smiled wistfully. "I was only wondering where I'd actually be able to _use _any of this. I'm learning a lot, but I haven't been able to apply it in any of my classes. It's nice to have, all the same, and with the war about to…" She paused, in reflection.

"Don't worry about the war. It doesn't affect you," he told her.

She gave him a funny look and continued. "I just hate all this pointless fighting."

"I agree. All fighting should have a point. For a just cause, war may be a necessity. Have you read about the English civil war?"

"Of course." She straightened up, instantly. "It was regicide. Oliver Cromwell believed he was doing the work of a higher power, that providence controlled his actions, that they were predestined and justified because of it! They were not liberators. What they did wasn't justified. They had no _right_—"

"It was time for a change in the government. The leaders were corrupt and full of greed. They needed an activist, someone to take back what had been tossed to the side."

"Are you a politician on the side?" Hermione asked shortly.

"Of course not. Cromwell was a general. I, too, would lead a war if the cause was right."

Hermione instantly quieted, looking at Tom seriously. "I must not be strong enough, then," she said, sadly. "I need to be…"

"You will be," he promised. "You will have the power to do whatever you want, you should know that."

"If I was powerful enough, I could stop it all. No more war. Ever."

"That, of course, would be ideal," was his response.

* * *

**February 17, 1945/95**

"I believe you've progressed far enough, now," Tom began their lesson.

"For what?" Hermione asked.

"To duel me," he replied. "Have you ever dueled anyone before?"

"No." She sounded curious, yet hesitant. "I've watched a few, but it was a long time ago."

"Ah. Well, this will be a very good lesson for you, then. We start, like this," he spread his arms out, stepping back a few paces to put a good distance between the two of them, circling each other in the empty space between two aisles of shelves. It was large enough for a duel, if he didn't get carried away.

"First, we bow," Tom said, inclining his head towards Hermione. "Yes, just like that."

"Now what?" Hermione asked. Hesitation had turned to eagerness, and he found it strangely endearing. As always, Tom had taken Hermione's wand at the start of each of their lessons, to _discourage bad habits_, as he'd said, and she felt incredibly awkward standing there, facing him down with nothing tangible to defend herself with.

Tom answered her with a jet of red lightning that burst from his wand and crackled through the air as it headed towards its target. "And now, we start!"

Hermione dived out of the way, throwing her arms out in front of her."_Protego!_"

"You are not using a wand, that is not going to work!" Tom shouted, but Hermione could see the familiar filmy bubble surrounding her that protected her from the next attack. He had already proven to her that his command over all realms of magic was unparalleled, so she would have to be creative to be competitive.

Hermione flung her arms out again, her mind blanking as she raced to think of something that she could do. Her fall had ripped her socks over the knees, and the slight stinging was distracting her.

"_Petrificus Totalus_!" Tom's spell seemed to have hit, and Hermione's arms and legs locked into place and she fell over again, more pain shooting through her back and elbows when she fell. Tom had told her that she didn't need a wand to access the magic that was even now swirling in the air around them, so her frozen eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling as she struggled internally to find some way to ward off any oncoming attacks.

The blinding white light that seared through the room seemed to have no source, and broke the spell instantly as Hermione's eyes screwed tightly shut, one hand clamping over her eyes to provide even more protection from the searing brightness. She wanted to blind Tom, not herself, but as she condensed her thoughts the light evaporated as quickly as she'd brought it on and she climbed unsteadily back onto her feet, eyes adjusting slowly to the now darkened room as she spied Tom, his own arms covering his eyes from the deteriorative attack. She stumbled towards him as he dropped his arms, his dilated eyes from the lack of light even darker and more piercing than normal. She stopped, struck by how intensely he seemed to be staring back at her, even if it wasn't his intention—the rest of him looked exhausted, and thoroughly angry at her—and Hermione let out a tired "sorry" in apology.

Tom mustered a laugh, the faux-smile returning. "Don't be, that was very strategic. If you were facing a large number of opponents, for instance, that would have been quite effective."

Hermione blushed before wincing as the pain in her knees. The floor had to be anything but sanitary, and she twisted one leg to examine her knee better, wondering if her magic could be applied to healing.

"Allow me," Tom said. "It is my fault, after all." The corners of his lips quirked up wryly at that as he bent down, fingertips ghosting over the torn seams in the sock as he placed his wand before the injury, healing it with a simple command. "_Episkey_."

_Lesson number three is one of inherency_, Tom thought. _To work properly, a weapon must be kept in fine working order_. _She can't help anyone in this condition, least of all, me. A weapon is no good to me broken_.

"Thank you," Hermione replied softly. He stood up and she bent her knees again—no pain, this time. She tried to mask her surprise upon realizing that he'd also healed the bruises she'd received from hitting the floor; he'd been very thorough. It was courteous of him to heal all of her injuries—the duels she'd witnessed in the past hadn't been nearly this considerate.

"Until next time," he said. She smiled in return.

* * *

**February 24, 1945/95**

The prince-who-was-not-yet-a-prince watched the blank surface of the stained concrete with a frown disfiguring his otherwise handsome face. The silence reminded him that it was more than ten minutes past their normal meeting time.

_She. Was. Not. There. _

Thoughts swirled through his mind, punctuated by anger. _Where was she?_ What could _possibly_ be more important than their lessons? Who could be a better companion than he?

The thought barely occurred to him that she might be ill, but her powers would heal her, she would not let anything like infirmity keep herself from him, of that he was sure. He was left with a blind, furious rage, and his curses rebounded off of the scaffolding around him, breaking shelves and anything unlucky enough to get caught in its way.

_Why. Is. She. Not. Here? _He had no answer. He thought about marching out and finding her, dragging her back down to this refuge wasteland, but his sensibility reined him in. He could not leave this room; she was always to come to him, that was their agreement. And she had forfeited it.

The true target of his wrath was missing, but he would make her pay. She thought she could avoid him? That she could sneak away in the night, escape him? He seethed with anger, his whole body shaking with it at the thought that she could willingly leave him. Without him, she was _nothing_, didn't she see that?

_Oh, you stupid, foolish girl_. _I will have to come and find you_. _And trust me, you do not want that_. _Not at all_.

For that moment, he changed his mind. She was not the princess; she was the girl with a cloak of scarlet, the wool dyed in a factory and not stained by her dead grandmother's blood. She would be thrown into the fire; she had no one else to turn to, her cleverness would not save her now. _You are not a well-known hero, girl. _

They were falling…falling…and how far they would fall.

* * *

A/N: I hope you haven't forgotten about this story! My computer died for real this time, and I lost _everything_. All of my notes and writings for all of my stories were gone, and I had to re-write a lot of this chapter. It put me in a really bad funk, so I just needed to sit back and let my mind cool off a bit and focus on schoolwork and other things before I felt ready to return to this story. Since I've already established a tradition of updating around holidays, I wanted to spread the holiday joy with this update! I also wonder if anyone remembers the canonical significance of February 24th? =D

To my readers: I hope you have a wonderful, fun, and safe holiday season! Whatever holidays you celebrate, I hope you have a great time!

~Kako

* * *

_Anonymous review replies:_

Ryn: Thank you! Ah, yes, Tom's possessiveness…he can really get carried away, yes? xD

Celeste: Yes I am! But why can't we have HG/TR interaction and character development at the same time? There's no rule about that, I hope, haha. Thank you!

Voldemort: Wow, your review made me laugh. A lot. Hope you enjoyed the update!

Thistlebush: Thank you! *hugs* I know, there aren't a whole lot of Evil!Tom HG/TR stories, but I find their appeal is even greater from a writing standpoint, this was so much fun to write. I want their relationship to get dark, but I'm a little nervous because I've never written anything all that "dark" before. I'll get there eventually, but let me know if in future chapters you ever think it's not quite dark enough.

Patricia95: Sorry! I'm still alive! I'll _never_ give up on this story, don't worry, it's just to me rewriting is like pulling teeth and I get so stubborn about it that it took _forever_, but I hope it was worth it! Thank you so much for your comments!

Alyssa: Thank you! Again, super sorry for the updating delay. I asked Santa for some better time management skills for Christmas, haha. And I'm glad you like the summary!

~me~: Thank you! I hope you liked this chapter, there was plenty of HG/TR interaction and there'll be plenty more to come!


	5. Source

Thorns

A/N: Being on winter break is giving me more time than I know what to do with, so here's a lightning fast update for you all! Anonymous review replies are at the end.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed on Chapter Four! Sakura Takanouchi, Right or Ryn, satoz, lizzy likes the hot guy, patie, Favored, FA-AL, Veneficus L, Priscalthum, Reddragon13x, sweet-tang-honney, NightRaven13, Saene, Chasing, Beanacre0, Serpent in Red, Fencergrl81, Passing-Glance, seriana14, anonymous sheep, signy33, My Misguided Fairytale, vamp1987, and NS.

* * *

_Chapter Five: Source_

_Do you miss the way the world was spinning for us? Do you hurt the way that I do?  
After all this time you leave me broken—Mayday Parade, "If you can't live without me, why aren't you dead yet?"_

**Friday, January 8, 1932**

**4:12pm  
**

Tom Riddle sat on his bed with a box in his lap. He kicked his legs in ostensible delight, his feet hanging several feet above the floor, even though he had grown taller in recent months. He had just celebrated his seventh birthday, and as there was no money to buy him a birthday present and none of the other children had gifted him anything—the reason why he couldn't fathom—Tom had decided to collect his own presents from his companions' possessions.

In the tiny box sat a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a cheap harmonica. All monetarily worthless, but treasures nonetheless, and he coveted them as such. They were all he owned in this world, and he clutched the wooden box tighter upon the memory.

One could say that as he lived in this room he _owned_ it in a sense; _owned_ the regulation iron bedstead and cheap mattress, _owned_ the thin sheets and blankets covering it, _owned_ the tiny desk and tinier chair, _owned_ the large wooden cabinet against the far wall, its doors taller than he was, _owned_ the clothes hanging up neatly inside, _all _his.

One could also say that none of it was his because as long as he lived in this orphanage he was a ward of court and it was their will what condition he was kept in and it was the will of the warden that he was allowed this room and these objects to use.

He hated how poor he was, that he had to depend on someone else, even an entity as remote and reprehensible as the government, for his day-to-day living and security. He didn't want money and possessions because of the greed; he wanted them for the power, for the control. Was he really so weak that he could count the objects he truly owned on the fingers of one hand? No one would listen to a little boy in threadbare clothes, no matter what kind of supernatural powers he wielded over them.

He concentrated very hard on the box, so hard his eyes strained and his head began to hurt, but the lock barely twitched from his efforts and he wondered what went wrong; in the past he used to levitate the objects around him and twirl them around the room, laughing as he made them dance and sway with the music he played inside his head and listened to from the radio in a small soda shop around the corner where he could get lemonade for a nickel when he had one, and walk by with wistful regret when he didn't.

He opened the box manually, the muscles in his hands tensed and knotted from the earlier misplaced effort. He concentrated again on the items inside, trying to will them to move, disintegrate, burst into flames, _anything_, and he contemplated hurling the box against the wall but paused because he knew he wouldn't be able to put the pieces back together again.

He had it earlier that day, he knew, he'd threatened Eric Whalley and Dennis Bishop with it when they refused to hand over the toys that he wanted. He'd stretched out a hand and wished them pain in his mind, and it happened, and they screamed until their vocal chords grew raw and could take no more, their tears wetting the bland linoleum floor, and the looks of pure agony on their faces were like dessert to him, second helpings of it, even. It was over almost too soon and he mourned the loss of their pain.

And now, apparently, it was his turn to welcome his.

He fought the growth of that infinitely empty feeling within him as he _knew_ without a doubt that it was gone, and it would never, ever return.

* * *

**March 3, 1945/95**

Hermione tried her hardest not to be late, but it was getting harder and harder to sneak out every week, and the strange sinking feeling in her stomach was getting almost painful as she ran down the hall, reciting the words in her mind again as the door opened for her, black scrolls against tan stone even more sharp and jagged than she remembered. She walked inside, searching for Tom by sense rather than sight, feeling out the specific trace of his magic, feeling it spike the moment she entered the room.

Tom clutched a piece of paper in his hand, the corner where he gripped it creased and bent, the rest cream-white and even, a part of a stationary set she'd been given as a gift. She only used the set for special occasions, and she didn't know why she'd used it to pen a simple letter, but now watching his fingers clench around the expensive paper she wondered if it was wasted.

"Oh, good, you got my note," she breathed in relief. "I was afraid you didn't get it in time."

"I didn't," he answered slowly, harshly.

She frowned. "I'm so sorry, really, it wasn't my fault—"

His magic had enveloped the tiny room, closing in on the small square between aisles where they met. It surrounded her, pressing her back by the sheer force of his will, wrapping around her as she choked on the strength, caught off guard by the sudden intensity.

"_Whose fault was it, then? Not yours?_" The irony came crashing back in waves equal to the strength of his magic as he spoke the same words to her he'd said on the night of his birthday when Hermione had first opened up to him. He'd been careless, he'd let the weed sprout and it must be destroyed, and quickly.

The confused look on her face was irritating Tom to the point where he considered replacing it with fear just to know what it would look like on her face—he bet it would be _beautiful_—but he wanted _answers_, and he wanted them _now_.

He dropped her to the floor, withdrawing his magic as she gasped for breath.

"Don't you…_read_ the _papers?_" She spoke in rushes, her voice unsure, uneasy.

"Of course I do, don't be ridiculous," he responded. "Get to the point."

She drew herself up fully, pushing her hair out of her face as she looked at him, saw the fury etched in his eyes and took another breath.

"Then you must know about the Triwizard Tournament," she said. "That's where I was, I was one of the targets. I was knocked out, submerged underwater for an hour, and kept in a healer's tent for longer for _no_ reason whatsoever"—here she scowled, annoyed, and Tom allowed a glimmer of an amused smirk to cross his face before settling back into indignation—"and by the time I came back here it was already too late, and I _knew_ you'd be angry and I am _so_, _so sorry_."

She was near tears, and Tom was frozen in shock for almost a full minute before he composed himself and handed her a handkerchief from his pocket.

_Triwizard…Tournament? _He'd read about them, of course, so he knew that what she was saying wasn't possible, but a brief scan through her mind produced a truth that made no sense to him. He saw her, being pulled from the water by a boy with a shark's head who was getting entirely too close to Hermione for his liking, and the announcement of the champions…none of the Ministry officials or judges present looked familiar to him, and that bothered him.

She took the handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it, and Tom could feel her own magic spiking with her emotions. She really needed to learn to control them better; she was no good to him without that control.

_Wait a minute_…he paused. It was easier than usual to view her mind when she was distraught like this. The corners of his mouth stretched upwards into a grin as he stepped forward, pulling Hermione towards him and wrapping his arms around her to hide it. He ran one hand through her hair consolingly, fingers catching in the tangles and he briefly frowned in irritation.

"There, there," he murmured, his legilimency scanning more and more of that day's accounts, realizing with a strange sense of surprise that he _did_ know one person in Hermione's sight, but they looked so different that he hardly recognized them.

Professor _Dumbledore has done well for himself,_ Tom thought. _He is very old…but I would recognize those intolerable eyes anywhere_.

He saw not three, but _four_ champions, and Tom knew from his reading that such a thing had never occurred in the history of the tournament. After all, it wasn't called the _Tri_wizard tournament for nothing.

It had always been assumed that they were apart by merely a few years at Hogwarts, and that she could come and join him as soon as she graduated, but now he saw that their separation was a different matter entirely.

It had never occurred to him that they were separated by _time_ itself. He had never bothered to ask, and why would he, when the thought that she was from a time ahead of his own was so ludicrous that he hardly would have believed it if he had not seen the proof for himself in her mind.

He stiffened at the implications, unintentionally drawing Hermione tighter against his chest, and noticed that she had stopped crying and he reluctantly let her go. She stepped back, wiping her face once more with the handkerchief before folding it and holding it out to him awkwardly.

"Keep it," he said.

He knew she would; it pleased him that she would retain something of his, even if it was an average, plain handkerchief, but then again nothing was straightforward when it came to _any _property of ownership. It was a simple token—small as all first steps are—but before long she would be dependent on him for all things, not just a linen tissue and a few false words of comfort.

She brightened at that, putting it into her pocket before glancing at him expectantly.

"I…do not have a lesson prepared for today," he spoke softly, his mind still racing over every thought he'd gleaned from her mind. Now that she had regained her composure it was becoming difficult to get new information, but he had enough to draw the proper conclusions.

"Oh," she responded, glumly.

"Please leave." The words were far more difficult to speak than he had anticipated, but he needed to be alone to sort out this newest _development_, and it would be difficult, not to mention _distracting_, for the object of the plan that was already spawning in his brain to be within five feet of him while he planned it. No, he needed to be alone.

"We will resume your lessons next week. I will expect you to have practiced in that time. You will duel me again."

She seemed hesitant, saddened, like she believed he was getting rid of her. He hoped she was not going to cry again, it was a horrible look on her, it completely ruined her eyes.

"Just don't believe everything you read in the _Prophet_," she said.

_Just _what _exactly was the Prophet writing about her? _From the way she said the paper's name, it must have been something very tactless, but most importantly, _why would they care?_ He knew Hermione, and could think of nothing publishable about her that would sell newspapers. They thrived on gossip and scandal, so _what _exactly was Hermione involved in?

His consolation was intentionally brusque. "I have not read it in several days, actually," he lied. "But everyone knows the _Daily Prophet_ writes nothing but bias and libel." _Not a lie_, he reflected dryly.

It was amazing how drastically a smile changed the way her face looked. It was not her most beautiful look, but it was better than the weeping juvenile expression she had previously worn. A smile…suited her in a way that tears did not.

"Thank you," she said, and he nodded in reply, and she turned and left.

He did not want to let her leave his sight, _ever_, now that he knew her inadvertent secret. It was one thing to cheat death, but _time?_ He did not know if that was even possible, but he knew that _nothing_ would stop him from finding a way to steal her away.

He would have to be more cautious in the future, he realized. He'd said things that a more observant person might have picked up on, if they were looking for evidence. It was clear to him that she knew nothing of the inimitability of their arrangement, and he wanted to keep it that way. It might affect her progress negatively, and he couldn't have that.

He did not know _when_ exactly she lived, and it did not matter. The thought prickled the skin on his arms, and he felt it in a shiver. Messing with time was a dangerous thing, and he would not risk it, save for this. Knowledge of the future could change the past, and he would not jeopardize anything that would endanger her meeting with him. He needed to find a way, and if he could not find one then he would _create _one.

Either way, she would be with him.

_Your chains are _mine_. You belong to me._

He noticed for the second time that night that he'd been careless; he'd forgotten to summon her wand. She'd had it with her the entire time, yet she'd done nothing to stop him. She hadn't used it at all.

A smirk stretched slowly across his face.

She had the power to attack him, and she did not. Perhaps he had misjudged her dedication._ Well, well, there _is _something there after all_, he thought.

* * *

**Thursday, March 6, 1945**

**9:22pm**

He had a new prerogative, and it took precedence over everything else in his life; while working the late shift that night at Borgin & Burkes he spent the time reading about time travel—and there was a maddening shortage of literature on the subject—and working on a spell or method to rip her from her own time and bring her to his.

He had even stopped by the _Daily Prophet _offices and looked through their records of coverage for the past Triwizard Tournaments, just to be sure, but his convictions became even more solidified with his discoveries. No past champions looked anything like the people he'd seen in Hermione's mind, and none had ever used that particular trick she had described, by depositing human objectives underwater and having the champions retrieve them.

He glared at the piece of yellow-tinted parchment on the table next to him, its message scripted in a rolling cursive calligraphy, its connotations so opposite the letter from Hermione that now rested in a locked box in his flat. Hepzibah Smith had invited him for tea, _again_, with an offer of interest to buy the medal with the fleur-de-lis in the corner, the purchase delayed for what Tom was certain was another meeting with him. He penned a note on company parchment in reply, agreeing to the meeting but changing the date to a few weeks later; he was working on several other assignments for the company, collecting artifacts from some and selling them to others. In fact, just the following week he was supposed to meet and inspect a potential client who had developed quite the impressive cache of home-made poisons. Borgin & Burkes was no apothecary, but what self-respecting potion shop would sell a poison where they also did not carry the antidote, for purely capitalistic reasons? He would, of course, request a _demonstration_, as per their standard procedures.

_The things a dark wizard does in pursuit of what he needs_, he thought with disdain. Well, it couldn't be helped, and he _did_ like tea, so it was not all a bad arrangement, simply the company left much to be desired. With hope he would have the locket soon, and Hepzibah's death would signal his elevation to an even higher level.

He returned to his reading, marking a page on using magical objects in trans-temporal crossings. Most of the books he had perused at the bookstore had been useless, so in a stroke of genius he had taken to using Borgin & Burkes stock of dark magic volumes. There was quite a bit more there, but it was all theory, not proven conventions. No one had actually _tested_ the presumptions listed, but he would try them all if need be, until he found one that worked. He would start with their next lesson, he decided.

Here he had a _future_, and since he could not go to her she would just have to come to him. He would succeed; he had no other option.

He had no idea where to start, but he knew exactly where it was going to end.

* * *

A/N: The opening section describes Tom's loss of his ability to use wish-magic at will, which occurred because he cast a dark spell (likely something akin to a _crucio_) on several children in the orphanage. It might seem kind of odd now, but this section will become relevant later.

There is a new poll on my profile I would like you all to vote for. I am considering raising the rating of this story to M, and I would like to know what the reception would be to that change. The change wouldn't happen until the subject matter does, but I've been thinking about it for a while now, and there are just some things that I can do with this story that I can't do with a T rating.

Sticking with the holiday updating theme, I wish you all a pleasant New Year's! My resolution: to update more, haha. One shameless plug: I wrote a one-shot quartet titled _Simulacrum _to commemorate TMR's birthday yesterday, and y'all should read it if you've got the time! Also, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, so shoot me a review, please? =D

~Kako

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_Anonymous review replies:_

Anonymous sheep: Thank you! I'm glad you like the story so much! For you and all other anonymous readers out there, I tend to update around American holidays (I have no idea why) so…maybe check back in around MLK day? Valentine's Day? xD

NS: Thank you for your review! And I did have a Happy New Year (and by that I mean I did absolutely nothing except eat a ton of good food. And it was great xD) I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	6. Marionette

Thorns

A/N: Yes…I know…I fail at life. *shuffles away* Happy Fourth of July, to those of us in the States! Thanks to all the wonderful reviewers from Chapter Five: Shadowglove, vamp1987, 0Rosina0, seriana14, Serpent in Red, NightRaven13, satoz, My Misguided Fairytale, Prissy, Coco96, Favored, ombeline, shadowdreamslayer, NS, Ceralyn, Wait-for-Sleep, maripas, ginny7777, expressz641, sweet-tang-honney, ArtemisMoon87, SisterVernaSauventreen, anonymous sheep, BlackWingedHate, Schay, GLORIA, ClaireReno, ScarlettxTristan, RaND0mnESS, sakuya, SunSarah, SoonToHaveAnAccount, PersephoneTricked, Therese Jane, Lora, OfCakeAndIceCream, rok sok, tnka, and Ariel in Tempest!

Anonymous review replies are at the end.

* * *

_Chapter Six: Marionette_

_Do I dare disturb the Universe?  
In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.—The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot.  
_

**March 10, 1945/95**

"Are you ready?" Tom asked.

"Ready," Hermione called. She felt a brief moment of panic at the way that he inclined his head in the barest perception of a bow before unleashing an unfamiliar curse at her, its red-tinged magic searing her vision before she dove out of the way, fingers twitching without the usual support from her wand to protect her. She had to reassure herself that she didn't need it—_she_ was channeling the magic, she always had, the wand was merely a tool, she didn't need it—she ducked again, spreading out tendrils of magic to throw up a rather large desk as a shield. Tom threw another spell at her that began to incinerate the desk, wood and varnish peeling. She threw the burning desk at him and encompassed her side of the corridor with a shield, deflecting several additional spells. She turned and ran around the corner, using the tall shelves as cover, missing his satisfied grin as he waved the burning desk away, crashing it against its matching blue-cushioned chair.

Hermione had to admire the room's utility—it seemed to her that, like all its other incarnations, the Room of Hidden Things had an undeniable tenacity to produce strikingly different objects littering its shelves for them to abuse and destroy each time they practiced dueling. She doubted she'd ever seen the same object twice, not that she'd ever had time to catalogue the space as thoroughly as she'd have liked to. She didn't have time to appreciate the room's history, or even barely notice what she was using as a shield for Tom's attacks as she tiptoed down the aisle, forming a new plan.

Tom took the time to straighten his robes, brushing off near-invisible particles of dirt or debris as he tracked Hermione's presence in the adjoining row by her heavy breathing.

"Ready or not, here I come," he murmured, sending a slicing hex across the entire row, separating the frame of the shelf as neatly as a hot knife through butter. Boxes exploded as she used the cover from the smoke and confusion to put even more distance between them. He was learning so much more about her from these simple confrontations. She preferred long-distance fighting to close-combat—giving her time to analyze her opponent's weaknesses before taking them down rather than thinking on her feet or improvising. He liked to think his own style allowed no weaknesses—the best defense was, after all, a good offense.

Hermione didn't think Tom had noticed her yet from her position hidden by a large wooden screen tilted against one vast shelf. The screen in question was covered by gaudy silkscreened elephants, and Hermione hoped that choosing a very conspicuous place to hide would be the easiest way to avoid detection until she was sure she could overpower him in some way. He'd given her barely a moment's notice with his spells and curses—some of which, she noted, were highly dangerous and could have even been fatal if she'd been hit by them. He'd made her stretch her knowledge to the limits, coming up with creative uses for the obscure counter-curses and offensive spells she knew. She didn't know many, preferring a defensive stance herself, but over the course of their lessons she was beginning to appreciate a solid foundation in offensive magic. He refused to treat her as if she were made of glass, so she should give him the same courtesy, right?

She sprang out from her hiding place as he turned to investigate a corridor further down the clearing, holding her breath the entire time—her earlier diversion had worked, apparently—and the beginnings of a triumphant grin froze on her face as he spun around at the last second, his lips moving in a spell; Hermione tried to decipher it, but she ran out of time as her body froze and she felt a splitting pain in the back of her head, searching for Tom's face in the darkness that was slowly encroaching into her vision until she saw nothing at all.

* * *

**Still March 10, 1945/95**

**Five minutes later**

_Are you ready_, Tom had asked. The question was moot, because he did not particularly care if she was or not and it wouldn't affect him in the slightest; he'd attack if she was ready or not. The pleasantry was merely for appearances, which were becoming harder and harder to keep up with each passing week. The more he discovered about their situation and the unique bridge that connected their lives, for even this small moment, left an apprehension and anticipation in his mind that was better left ignored, for it proved an gratuitous distraction.

He'd thrown their last duel, of course; if he wanted to win, no matter the situation or cost, he _would_, that much was fact. He felt a certain saturation of pride at the thought that he'd bested her and re-righted the score, even though she was undoubtedly unconscious by now and couldn't appreciate his actions at the moment.

His intention had been to knock her out so he could test his first hypothesis, but he'd overdone it, apparently. She'd hit the ground hard, and her head had made an uncomfortable noise when it smacked the concrete floors—she'd no doubt have a roaring headache when she awoke, but that was only the start of his problems. She'd seen very clearly that he'd been the one to knock her out, and the way her wish-magic unintentionally shielded her mind would make casting a memory-modifying charm tenuous. It ultimately didn't matter, he was sure that she would believe anything he said, and an accidental blow to the head was explained easily enough.

His research had accomplished nothing, but Tom's logic was never very far from the truth when most things were concerned, and he knew eventually that he would solve this problem; it was only a matter of time. He knew several things: it was by the power of the Room of Hidden Things that they were able to meet; he always arrived at the room first; she always left it first. He knelt by her side, arranging her body so she looked less broken and more like she was sleeping. Her arms and legs were crumpled underneath her from where she'd fallen, and Tom pulled her body towards his as best he could, sliding one arm around her shoulders and the other under her legs and stood, lifting her with him.

His first hypothesis was simple. What would happen if the two of them left the room together? Would it allow it? Would they arrive at her time or his? If not, what was tethering her—or him—to their respective times? His mind buzzed with questions and he wondered how long she'd be unconscious so he could try them all.

She was not heavy, but it was still awkward to carry so much dead weight, and the thought struck Tom's mind when he was about halfway to the door why he didn't just levitate her. He shrugged that off, momentarily enjoying the fact that, while she was like this, she was completely dependent upon him. He could strangle the life out of her, crush her skull in, or otherwise tear her apart until her remains became as much a permanent fixture in this room as the other dead-end items covered in dust and age. Not that he would, of course, her potential was too great and there were so many ways she could—_would_—be of use to him.

He approached the door cut into the wall, huge stone and wood, painted with black scrollwork that was peeling around the edges slightly—the longer he looked at it the more scratched and uneven it became, but he simply shifted Hermione in his arms slightly to allow him to grasp the handle and turn it.

Only, the handle refused to turn.

He clutched Hermione closer to his shoulder to give his free hand the room to clench the door-handle tighter, but it still remained as fixed and rigid as though it was purely decorative and served no extenuating purpose.

He pulled his wand from his pocket and tried again, casting a simple _Alohomora_. Nothing.

The weight and position he was in was getting awkward, so he staggered back from the door, nearly dropping Hermione in the process as he let her legs fall to the floor, still cradling her head and upper body against his shoulders. He stumbled backwards until he felt his back touch the side of one of the colossal shelves, letting gravity take over as he dropped to the floor, keeping one arm protectively over Hermione as she slumped, still unconscious, against his chest. In her condition he was able to appraise her in a way that he would never allow himself to do if observed.

She had a small bruise forming on one cheek, and the purplish color of it made it appear that she was closer to death, instead of simple unconsciousness. He didn't like that look on her, so he busied himself with healing it, tending to the other small injuries she'd sustained that day, from the tiny cuts from broken glass or additional bruises from her undignified collapse to the floor. He left the headache, simply because he knew she would get suspicious if she awoke and it was gone. To her, it would appear as though only seconds separated her collapse from her reawakening.

_Why couldn't you have been born in my time? _He thought, frowning. It was _almost_ not worth the hassle. The previous week, he had gifted her with a simple handkerchief, he remembered—his _true_ first hypothesis. He'd already replaced it with the new one in his pocket, but she'd undoubtedly had no trouble carrying it with her when she left the room. That meant that it was certainly possible to transcend the boundaries that separated them otherwise. He simply had to find the way to allow her to pass to his time. The difference between a linen handkerchief and a witch was as clear as night and day when it came to magic—an inanimate object was not bound by the same laws. Perhaps he would try to hide a magically-enchanted item on her person and see if it would work…

Tom pulled her wand from his pocket and stared at it. _Well, _that _certainly wouldn't do_. He took his own, and with magic unwound the shoelace from her right shoe, a sensible black loafer-style, and tucked it into his pocket before transfiguring one of the buttons on his shirt into a duplicate, threading it back into place on her shoe and neatly tying it with magic.

_Hypothesis number two_, he thought. He needed to know if magically-enchanted or magically-absent items could be transferred both ways, forwards and backwards through their respective times, and if the button-turned-shoelace could leave with her, Tom knew that it would be a clear possibility of human transport. He just needed to find the right spell, focus on the right limitations, and break them.

_Well_. His legs were falling asleep, and he'd spent enough time on the floor, so he pulled himself up, levitating Hermione beside him as he walked casually back to where she had initially fallen. He set her back down, gently, and stood back as he prepared the spell to wake her up.

"_Rennervate."_

_

* * *

_**Still March 10, 1945/95**

**Twenty-five minutes later**

She blinked twice before sitting up and regretted it instantly, for the pretty colors that swam into her vision made her feel even more disoriented and seemed to magnify the pain that started at the base of her skull and hung a left at her ears before settling somewhere comfortably near her temples.

"Ow," she managed, wincing. Suddenly, Tom rushed to her side, helping to support her as she stood.

"Are you alright?" He asked, the picture of concern and guilt. "I didn't think that spell would catch you so off-guard, it was only a simple _Relashio_, and are you sure there isn't anything I can do for your head?"

Hermione was quick to reply. "No, it's my fault, really. If I was better at controlling my magic, I'd have been able to deflect it. I've just got to get better. What's a few scrapes, anyway?"

He failed to reminder her that the scrapes were long-gone.

"I wouldn't want you to have to go to the infirmary. Let me heal you."

Hermione looked reluctant, but acquiesced after a moment. "You're right. Madam Pomfrey would probably kill me."

He lightly brushed her hair out of the way and cast "_Episkey_." He knew she meant it as a colloquialism, but it still irked him that, even casually, she considered this Madam Pomfrey—of whom he'd never heard, and resolved to investigate as soon as he returned to his research—more of a danger than himself. Not that he'd given her any reasons to think otherwise, but it still irked him.

"Hmm," he murmured noncommittally, smoothing her hair with his fingers over the place where the bump on her head had once been. He knew from a funny-looking clock on the nearest shelf at eye level—still working, _surprise, surprise_—that he had spent far longer here with Hermione than he'd meant to. He'd had to adjust his schedule a little, so that he could accommodate his longer lessons—and they seemed to be getting longer with each passing week.

Hermione seemed to notice it at the same time that he had.

"Is it _really_ that late?" She sounded surprisingly panicked, jumping up, not noticing the frustrated expression on Tom's face.

"I've got to go, I have a Potions essay to write! _Eighteen _inches, I don't know how I'll find the time—"

Tom cut her off with a wave of his hand. "We will meet again next week, and I'll have expected you to improve."

"Yes. Of course." She paused. "I _have_ been practicing, you know. I practice _every day_."

She left, briskly walking towards the exit to return to her common room and the assignment waiting for her, wondering in the briefest periphery of her mind why her right shoe felt uncommonly tight.

* * *

**Still March 10, 1945/95**

**10:22pm**

The thought that she thought of his lessons—and by extention, _him_—at least once a day sat pleasantly in his mind, but he tensed and watched her with careful observation as she walked away from him and down the aisle, heading towards the door. A handful of seconds later, and he felt that familiar pressure-silence that indicated to him that he was undeniably and completely alone. He followed her path, watching her footprints in the light scattering of dust on the floor, knowing that those black loafers had been the carrier for the first seed of his plan. It was possible.

He paused before the oversized door before tucking his right hand in his pocket and opening the door with his left. He felt his fingertips brush up against the shoelace and he allowed his lips to stretch up into a smirk.

Every muscle in his body relaxed as he set foot in Hogwarts, familiar ground, the knowledge that he had _succeeded_, even in some small capacity, making his focus and attention loose enough that he didn't notice how someone could have caught him so off-guard until he heard the strikingly female voice call out to him:

"Mr. Riddle. Not only are you in this castle when you no longer should be, you are here after hours. An interesting story, I'm sure."

It _was_ after-hours; that much was obvious. He twisted his fingers around his wand, ready to cast the necessary spells to wipe the memory of his visit from their minds—or their entire self, if necessary—before he turned, hunching his shoulders slightly and turning his face up to appear more innocent, to give the appearance of the total absence of threat.

His quickly formulated plan for escape vanished as he caught sight of the one who had caught him. Dark hair, twisted into a knot at the base of her neck. Gray robes, drawn tightly across a thin body, the edges melting into a transparent vapor that stretched around her and shimmered in the thin light.

He was staring at the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw. The Grey Lady.

"Mr. Riddle," she said, watching him through doleful, blank eyes as she drifted closer. "Won't you come with me? Let's have a little chat, like old times, and you can better explain your presence here."

* * *

A/N: My sincerest apologies for the long wait for this chapter. Rest assured that, while I may not update as fast as you would like, I promise to never abandon this story! Your reviews are the most encouraging form of support for my writing, and I would love to hear what you think about this newest chapter!

~Kako

* * *

_Anonymous review replies:_

NS: =D That's ok, I've decided not to raise the rating, I got an excellent suggestion where I should just give a warning if I'm worried the subject matter might be pushing some boundaries. And I do think in canon Tom was…well, if not a "reject" (xD) then at least a bit of an oddball. Looking at what he did to the fellow orphans in the cave and what he was capable of at that age, I think he would've "grown in" to his more charming persona during his school years. And I'm glad you like Tom's characterization! That's the hardest part for me, trying to balance his deception with Hermione's intelligence (and I can't comment on how/when/if she'll discover what he's really up to xD). I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

GLORIA: Thank you! I'm glad you're liking the story so far! I do try to make this story different from what else is out there by trying to make things as realistic as possible and by keeping a strict canon timeline. I've decided to keep it T for now, and just give warnings if there's any sensitive content.

Anonymous sheep: Thanks for your review! You miss fanfiction? But there's so much of it! xD I hope this chapter did not disappoint!

Lora: First I must thank you for your reviews on this story and ADKoG! You're so right, I have a responsibility to my readers to update on a timely matter, and that is one thing I did hope to change this summer. I'm glad you're enjoying this story, and my others—I know what it feels like when a good story isn't updated, and I'm trying to break this bad habit!


	7. Value

Thorns

A/N: Long-awaited, we finally have some more sections in Hermione's PoV! Blame Tom Riddle's characterization, he's too alluring for his own good. xD But first, let's settle that cliffhanger, shall we?

Much thanks to everyone who reviewed on Chapter Six: RaND0mnESS, vamp1987, ckatherine, Anoymous, sweet-tang-honney, Areej, ClaireReno, seriana14, Serpent in Red, Prissy, maripas, Sterope, Frantic-Disco, magentasouth, Ijoan, Dark'nLightAngel, Elspethe, ShimmeringWater, Vestal Harlot, Risottonocheese, xevanescentstar, A. Nymous, Blue-Starlight92, Ariel in Tempest, Sakura Takanouchi, PersephoneTricked, and My Misguided Fairytale! Anonymous review replies are at the end.

* * *

_Chapter Seven: Value_

_Yet it be less or more, or soon or slow / It shall be in strictest measure even  
To that same lot, however mean or high / Toward which Time leads me—John Milton, "How Soon Hath Time" _

**Saturday, March 10, 1945**

**10:27pm**

The space of five minute's time found Tom sitting opposite the Grey Lady in an alcove off the seventh floor, not far from where she had originally found him. Neither had spoken another word to each other, but the disapproving yet distressed expression on the Grey Lady's face spoke volumes about her opinions of his inability to simply "let go" of the home he'd built at Hogwarts.

"Tom Riddle," she began at last with a resigned sigh. "Not only have you already graduated from this institution, but it is after hours, surely you must have realized this. You must explain yourself."

She had not offered to bring him tea or any other comforts save the worn, blue striped armchair he was sitting in. He was not a guest here, no longer, and Tom was all too aware of the Grey Lady's behavior and intent.

Like all beings residing in the castle, Tom had sought out her acquaintance on more than one occasion throughout his years residing there, simply to discover more about her condition and her heritage. The Founders had fascinated Tom, and Helena's conversations on the subject had been short and vague, no matter how hard he tried to coax the information out of her.

"Well, you see," he began slowly, leaning his head back against the top of the armchair to observe the Grey Lady while his own face remained hidden in the shadows of the alcove's many angles and heavily draped windows. Her eyes had been blue in life, he decided, for they glimmered back at him strongly, as though always on the verge of tears. It was the kind of face that knew both wisdom and sorrow—the kind of face one could not easily lie to.

"I am giving magical instruction to a Hogwarts student," he said calmly, crossing his fingers together over one knee.

"I see. She is not in Ravenclaw?"

"No," Tom replied. "Gryffindor." He swore inwardly, instantly realizing his mistake in the smug expression the Lady wore for an instant before removing it to return to her dull look of sorrow. It was as if the lines had been so deeply etched into her face over the years that she could wear no other look, but she _was _Ravenclaw's daughter, and in all probability she was smarter than Tom—more intelligent than he gave her credit for, he acknowledged bitterly. The personification of a contemporary Ravenclaw student had evolved from her own ethos, where high intelligence and calculated logic will supersede all else, even in the face of a moral or ethical quandary. She could have been a snake of Slytherin save her lack of cunning—but, Tom noted dryly, an Eagle will always protect itself and its own, first.

"I see," the Lady repeated.

_Did she? _Tom's mood lessened by the second. "Tell me about your day, Helena," he asked disinterestedly.

She laughed; the sound was cold and empty. Familiar. "We both know you care not for how my day went," the Lady replied. "I have not left this tower in months, and only then to wander around the building as you found me. In the dark, Hogwarts is timeless, is it not?" She nodded at him sagely, and Tom had the unsettling feeling that she knew much more than she let on. "In the dark, with no one else around, it could very well be the century of my life that I have returned to, and not the one of my death that I am forced to re-live every day. Does that answer satisfy you, Tom?"

"Not really," he answered without inflection; in fact, her answer evoked a worsening sensation of discomfort. "If you must, then, tell me about your _life_."

Her laugh this time was choked with grief. "Only you, Tom, would ask such a thing of me." Gray, vapid eyes met his. "_No one_ has asked me about my life in years, and if you recall, you were the last to do so and I told you nothing then."

"Yes," he agreed. "Yet I would be interested in hearing your side of the story."

"What story?" She asked.

"His."

"The Baron's?" She sneered.

Tom inclined his head. _Check_. One never made the same mistakes twice.

"Yes…the Baron," he said slowly, enjoying her familiar discomfort. "I was in Slytherin, as you know."

"You could have been in no other House," she agreed. "Not even mine—you are of Salazar's blood, after all."

His body stiffened, his countenance twisting into an ugly scowl. The Lady was his intellectual match, certainly—yet they had never played a game like _this_, if each of their threats were of any indication. She was furious at him for something, and he wished to know it. The Bloody Baron unsettled Tom almost as much as his current companion did, and Tom was not lying when he told the Lady he had heard their story from the Baron's point of view. The Baron, the House ghost in name only, was as filled with the anger, threat, and terror that had defined him in life—his memories of the Lady were bitter and warped, cruelly romantic, and startling in their intensity and misguided passion. He deserved his fate, unwilling to let go of the past as he was.

"You know what he says about you," Tom added conversationally.

"He is not the victim, here," the Lady said sharply. "And neither am I. I have not exchanged words with the Baron in decades."

"Then why does he wear his chains for all _eternity _for you?" Tom asked, his voice growing in volume and acceleration. "Why is your penance your silence?" He shook his head in disappointment of his own. "What I do not understand is why you would willingly lock yourself away in your tower when your mind could be put to much better use outside these four walls."

Her smile was thin and did not reach to her eyes. "I understand that the pain my mind could bring would far outweigh any potential, hypothetical benefits—that was the mistake of my life. I acted out of passion, not love. You would not understand anything about love, Tom—its joys or its consequences."

"Ah, of course," he mocked bitterly. "Your love for your mother, whom you abandoned. Your love for the Baron, who she sent to retrieve you—who killed you and then himself in despair. I so clearly see the boundless praise for the heaven-sent resolution that is the plague of love. If only the world save myself were infected."

"I am not the one to teach you about _love_, Tom," The Lady said coolly. "And you should not talk as an expert would on things which you know nothing about."

"You seem to know too much about it," Tom replied. "Look what has become of you—all because of your choices involving _love_."

"You also share the blood of a Founder," the Lady said. "You understand more than anyone the pure power in their blood—the supremacy of their magic and the need to want to surpass that at all costs, and the knowledge that you never can."

"_I _can and _will_," Tom said, his voice low and even. _I know your failures—you have even given them a name. So gracious of you to do so. Rest assured, I will not repeat your mistakes._

"You are already on your way," the Lady acknowledged. "Whether that is a good thing or not, we will see."

Tom kept his face neutral and even, no sign of the frown he wished to display. She knew more than she let on—she always had. Perhaps that was why he could trust in her secrecy, if there was anything to trust in at all. That was the thing with people like them—for they were very much alike, Tom realized clearly—he did not have to pretend while in her company. He could be as cruel as she could be, without repercussions—and they had both proven in their lives that they had an endless capacity for cruelty. That was the main reason he had avoided her while in Hogwarts except for a few notable exceptions—he did not much like to be around people like him; he knew what they were capable of.

"It was a shame, I suppose," Tom said. "That you ruined something so promising. You have no one to blame but yourself for your actions, I'm sure."

"Wisdom is unbecoming on you, Tom," the Lady whispered. "As it was on me when I defied Rowena."

"What did you do, exactly?" he asked, his pitiless smirk razor-sharp and unrelenting. "What could your creative mind have come up with?"

"I wanted my mother's intelligence," she replied. "I thought, that by stealing her diadem I would obtain it."

"Diadem?" Her words piqued Tom's interest.

"The symbol of Rowena's intelligence and power. She created the diadem as a manifestation of her magical significance. I stole it from her—and she let me."

"To what end?" Tom asked, leaning forward slightly. The Lady's smile was thin and wan, but he saw the life brought back into her eyes by the recollection of the memory. "I wished to become greater than her, of course," she said wearily. "More intelligent."

"You obviously did not succeed." Tom gestured to her ghostly body.

"No. By stealing the diadem, my desire for greatness was corrupted. I proved that I was not her equal—I was not even worthy to access the diadem's powers! Me! Her own flesh and blood!"

"And where is this diadem now?" Tom asked, his own eyes alight with greed and longing. "Please, Helena. You can tell me."

"I hid it in a tree in Albania," she said.

The thrill that ran through Tom at those eight simple words screamed through his body, following his veins all the way from his neck to his fingers and toes. First the discovery of the locket, and now _this_—he wasn't even ashamed at the wide grin that stretched his mouth from corner to corner, baring all of his teeth, leaving his mouth open in a silent show of wonder and appreciation.

_Checkmate. It's mine…all mine…they both will be!_ he thought with anticipation. _Does she even know—what she's just given to me freely? _His eyes narrowed. _Of course she does_.

"What's the catch?" he bit back. "You know what this means for me."

"It must be found eventually," the Lady answered offhandedly. "I do not choose sides—what you do with it is your business." Her own eyes glanced up, once again shining as though with tears. A ridiculous notion—Tom dismissed the idea. Ghosts could not cry; they did not have tears to shed. And she most certainly would not cry for him.

"—_If _you can find it, after all," she reminded him with a cryptic smile. "That should keep you occupied so you do not have to wander the halls of Hogwarts at night, teaching this student of yours."

_Damn it all_. He couldn't go after the diadem now—there was still Hermione's _education_, as the Grey Lady so charmingly put it, and the simple problem of their separation through time. Perhaps the Lady had an opinion on this as well? The diadem could wait. No one else knew of its existence, after all. Obscurity would keep it safe, for now.

"The Baron loved me," the Lady murmured. "He killed me out of _love_."

"The things people do for love," Tom agreed. He knew the Baron perhaps as well as he knew the Lady. "He's insane."

"And then he killed himself out of hatred. Guilt." The Lady stood fluidly from her chair, silver shimmers outlining her thin body. She reached up to tuck a stray piece of hair back into place.

"This conversation is no longer of benefit to you or I," she said. "It is best if we leave each other at that."

Tom stood as well, inclining his head to gesture that she should be the first to leave the enclosed alcove.

She frowned. "I know I should not have told you this," the Lady said, "but it is not for you. It is for her."

"Who?" Tom asked.

She looked at him sorrowfully. "You won't be able to get to it. And when you do, it'll be too late. And Tom?"

"Yes?" He asked.

"Never let me catch you here again."

* * *

**Monday, March 16, 1995**

**10:14am**

Hermione stood in the library during her morning break, traversing a comfortable path between the many shelves and a small table tucked away in a back corner next to a large window. She had a habit of spending much of her time here, and the window let her know when it was getting dark, or else she would keep on studying right through dinner.

It was a table for four, but Hermione's books and papers spread out over the entire surface, her satchel resting on an adjoining chair. Carefully, Hermione set down the newest stack of books, each on the same subject.

_Wish-magic_, he'd called it. An unusual, but apt name. She wondered if he invented it himself, as she could not find any mention of it in any magical textbook, so she'd moved on to theory, medicine, philosophy—_anything _that could give her the information she craved. She could always just ask Tom, she supposed, but Hermione wanted to be able to present the information herself.

She had just opened the cover of Adalbert Waffling's _Magical Theory_—_no better place to start than the basics, right? _she thought—when the two empty chairs were pulled out and Harry and Ron dropped themselves heavily into the seats.

"What are you doing here?" She asked.

"Well," Ron started, "Harry here was a little impatient, wanted to get started on his Divination project early—"

"I was?" Harry managed to cover his surprise well, although Hermione only raised an eyebrow thinly in response to his shallow cover. "Yeah. The sooner we start, the quicker we finish, right?"

"Well, _Harry_," she said, pointedly ignoring Ron. "I'd be glad to help you, if you'd like."

Harry sighed, shooting a brief glare at Ron, who twisted with discomfort in the wooden chair. "All right! Hermione, I'm sorry for not supporting you through this whole…Skeeter mess. You're our friend, and that's what friends do. And besides…we've missed you. I don't know what you do without us, but without you—we're lost, Hermione." He laughed.

"Apology accepted," she said with a smile.

"So, what are you doing?" Ron twisted the book nearest him so it was no longer upside-down. "_Practical Numerology_? What's all this for?"

Hermione closed the book she had just begun reading, taking a few additional moments to straighten the other books around her. "It's a special project I'm taking on."

"That's funny, I thought Professor McGonagall wouldn't let you take on any extra work," Harry said, concerned. "Not after letting you _overwork_ yourself last year."

"It's not with Professor McGonagall."

"Really? Vector, then?"

"No, it's—" She paused, biting her lip, unsure where her hesitation was coming from. "It's a special project of mine. Some personal research—you wouldn't understand it."

"Probably not," Harry agreed with a friendly smile. "We don't understand half of what goes on in your head, Hermione."

"But I'm also doing some research for the last trial," she said with a smile. "Here, I grabbed a few spell-books for you." She passed Harry a thick stack of books, with subjects ranging from creative Charms to intermediate curses.

"Wow, Hermione," Harry said, gathering the books carefully yet swiftly. "You didn't have to do this, you know."

"Yes I did," she replied. "You'd be sunk without me."

"That's probably true." Ron's easygoing reply, instead of warming Hermione to the repeated reference to her magical skill, merely made her even more acutely aware of how true it was. She shook it off with a slight shudder—they were her _friends_, and friends help friends, right? She had only just made up with Ron, and that was probably it, she decided. She was still on the edge, still looking for a reason to antagonize him, instead of letting bygones be bygones like she should have done. It wasn't her fault she couldn't forget.

"Come on," Hermione said, lowering her voice. "The weather's nice. Let me check out these books and we'll go outside and work on some spells for your third task."

"Really?" Harry brightened considerably, and Hermione noted how he handled the books with greater attention than before as she gathered the rest of her things together. "Do you really think I need to learn all of this stuff?"

"Of _course _you do, Harry!" She said. "You can never be too prepared. Who _knows _what you'll be up against—"

"—Diggory and Krum, for one," Ron interrupted—

"—and I'd feel much better if I didn't have to _worry _so much about you blowing yourself up because you made the improper wand movements for the _Incarcerous_ spell!"

They walked quickly together through the Library's doors and into the main hallway, Hermione and Harry each struggling with an armful of books. Once outside, they found a quiet spot by a cluster of benches in the entrance courtyard, and Hermione set down her books, took off her cloak, and reached for her wand.

"Ok, Harry, let's see what you've got."

"…What?" He asked.

"Pretend you are being attacked. Something is coming at you. What is the first spell that pops into your head?"

"…What?"

"Harry!" Hermione threw up her hands in exasperation. "You need to change your way of thinking! You're a wonderful wizard, but you need to have sharper instincts! Here, let's practice the _Impedimenta_ curse, it's on page sixty-seven of that book." She prodded the cover of the book with her wand, and the pages immediately flipped to the desired page.

Harry leaned in to read the text on the spell. Hermione felt her face grow hot, but kept her surprise and embarrassment under control. Whenever she had practiced wish-magic, she had done it in private and in secret—it was not the wand at all that had flipped the pages, merely her desire for the book to move as she commanded. Hermione could have told Harry and Ron about her newfound abilities at any time, as she knew Harry especially could sympathize with having unusual personal magical resources. It was just that there was no way to tell them about her abilities without explaining the rest: she had been studying in a secret room inside the castle with a reclusive, powerful instructor for months. He had been teaching her to command all aspects of her powers—he did not shy away from teaching her how to cast spells with _negative intentions_, as she referred to them in her mind—and she did not shy away from learning those spells. Control was a circular, well-rounded process, and Hermione wished to know magic in all its forms and guises.

No—it was best that Harry and Ron not know of her new magical abilities, for now.

For now, she would help them the best way she knew how.

"Yes, wave your wand like that," Hermione said, reaching into her bag and grabbing a spare quill, transfiguring it into a rubber ball. "The incantation is _Impedimenta_. It will slow down your targets. If you have enough force of will, it will stop them completely in their tracks."

"_Impedimenta_," Harry said. "Got it."

"We'll see about that," she replied, tossing the ball to Ron. "Toss the ball at Harry, and Harry—you cast the spell. On my mark."

She nodded to Ron, who threw the ball lightly at Harry. "_Impedimenta!_"

The ball smacked against Harry's shins. "Ow! Ron!"

Hermione pursed her lips. "Stop, stop. You're doing it all wrong. You need to learn _control_." Her own words startled her, they seemed so familiar. Where had she heard that before?

She folded the burgeoning thoughts within herself, focusing instead on the botched spell before her. "Your force of will isn't strong enough," she corrected. "With this spell, _you _control the ball. You have to _want _to stop it, merely saying the word isn't going to do a thing."

"Ok, Hermione." Harry had the proper air of determination about him now, and he tossed the ball with a snap of his wrist back to Ron, who caught it deftly. "Again."

This time, Harry was ready. "_Impedimenta!_" His heart soared as the ball slowed its arc, moving in almost slow-motion through the air. Harry reached out and plucked the ball from the air, feeling its oddly heavy weight settle in his palm. "I did it."

"Of course!" Hermione said brightly. "You can master any spell if you just set your mind to it, literally."

Harry threw the ball back to Ron. "Let's try it again."

"All this work's making me hungry," Ron said, scratching his stomach with his free hand. Hermione rolled her eyes, and almost unconsciously reached into her bag to pull out a conjured apple. Belatedly, she realized what she was doing, but no one had seen her. Ron _was _hungry, and she had a means of obtaining food—why not share her gift in this small way?

"Here, you can have this," she told him, handing him the apple.

"Hey, I've got an idea," Ron said between mouthfuls. "Hermione, you should help prepare Harry for the third task! Teach him everything you know! He's bound to win with your help."

"I thought that's what I was doing," she said with a grin, as Harry succeeded again in slowing down the ball in mid-trajectory.

"I know, but more formal," Ron said. "You need to teach Harry these things. And me, too," he realized after.

"Ok," Hermione said. "Let's start on Wednesday." There was no question she would do everything in her power to help Harry win the tournament, but it seemed that every instance of her time was being stolen away by different magical projects. School, lessons, these _new _lessons, avoiding hate-mail by _Daily Prophet _devotees. Hermione found that out of all of them, she was most looking forward to her lessons with Tom each week.

* * *

**March 17, 1945/95**

Hermione walked with expectant anticipation into the Room of Hidden Things, eagerly awaiting their lesson. She found Tom seated on a green velvet cushion in a wide gap between a set of high shelves arranged like the spokes of a wheel, pointing out towards the exit.

"How are you today?" She asked. They had not discussed their lives much, outside of the context of their lessons, but she felt they had grown comfortable enough around one another to ask and answer such questions.

"I am well," Tom answered, his voice heavy with an unknown significance. "I am very well."

"That's good to hear," Hermione said with a smile, seating herself next to him in an empty cushion beside his. Tom had conjured both of the cushions prior to their arrival, but out of idleness made them both green in color. She did not seem affronted by her lack of Gryffindor-colored seating, instead arranging herself comfortably in the cushion, tucking her feet underneath her legs.

"And yourself?" Tom asked after a pause. He supposed it was the polite thing to do, after all.

"I'm fine," she answered automatically. "I have a friend, competing in the Triwizard Tournament—I've been teaching him all sorts of spells and things to help him prepare. I can't teach him the magic you've taught me, of course, but the theory and tactics are coming in handy."

"You're…what?" Tom asked, noting belatedly with mild interest how his knuckles grew white where his fingers had clenched themselves around his wand. "You're teaching someone else _my _secrets? _My _strategy?"

"What's the matter?" She asked innocently. "You said you wouldn't teach him yourself, so I'm doing it. Besides, using the skills you've taught me to teach another is surely helping me improve more than simple practical applications?"

"That, Hermione, is beside the point," he said. "My time and attention are gifts reserved solely for _you_—_your _benefit alone, not for you to re-gift to whomever you choose."

"I'm sorry," she replied sincerely. "I did not know that you would—"

"And did that not occur to you?" he interrupted harshly, "I am doing this for _you_—not for—" He stopped himself suddenly, withdrawing himself simultaneously from Hermione's mind lest the next words out of his mouth were _'some idiot with round glasses and a bad haircut_.' He would not be caught in her mind like a child with a finger trapped in the cookie jar.

"—anyone else," he finished. _Not technically true_, he thought. _I do this as much for myself as I do for you, Hermione_.

"I'm still going to help him however I can," Hermione argued. "He's my friend. That's what friends do for one another. I love my friends."

Tom visibly flinched at her words, his jaw tightening, fingers clenching his wand so tightly it hurt. The pain was good—helped him to see things more clearly.

"I see," he said. "In that case, may I enlighten you as to the _true _value of friendship?"

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but Tom continued. "I have learned, in my line of work," he began, and Hermione wondered briefly just what work that was, "that to trust anyone beyond myself would be foolish at best and suicidal at worst. People are in this world for themselves—what are your friends really getting out of their relationships with you? Assistance on their schoolwork whenever they need it, no doubt. Yet—you can see clearly that _they _get much more benefit from your friendships than you do. Now why is that?"

"If I'm correct in what you're insinuating—such a thing would not be possible," Hermione said. "Only perfect equals could derive equivalent benefits from a friendship."

"Then in your world and mine, you are my only friend, Hermione." This time it was Hermione who flinched, but her eyes were filled with confusion and compassion rather than carefully concealed fury.

"There is more to it than that! It's…not what you say."

"I still do not understand your preoccupation with such matters," he said. "You are wasting your time."

"It is mine to waste, then."

He shook his head, sadly. "I thought I had taught you better than that."

"Did it never occur to you," she replied softly, using his own earlier words, "that I might have something of value to teach you as well?"

Tom allowed a thin, forced smile to build itself from his lips. "When you are here, I am the instructor, and you are my student. Today, I have something new to teach you."

Hermione instantly brightened, leaning forward with rapt attention. "What is it?"

"Wish-magic is as limitless as you believe it to be," Tom began. "Conversely, it can also be limiting, if you choose to limit your mind. You have learned to move objects through the air, shield yourself from harm, and create fire. Light. Sustenance. You know well how it can destroy—today I shall teach you how to heal."

"Heal…what?" She asked.

"Anything."

"_A-Anything?_"Hermione's logical confusion overpowered her enthusiasm for a brief moment. "But that's not—"

"What did I say—you are limiting yourself by your thoughts, Hermione," Tom said. "You can knit together wounds, set splints, purge the blood of toxins—with the proper concentration and practice."

Hermione looked around, spreading her arms out in proof. "Practice? There's no one to practice on except for you and I, and I really don't think that's a good idea."

"But Hermione," Tom said with a low grin. "How else will you learn? We'll start out small for today."

He waved his wand almost carelessly through the air and a loose sheet of paper flew towards him. He caught it effortlessly, turning it over in his hands. It was a piece of plain white copy paper, unmarked, and Tom eyed the edge. Swiftly he ran one hand sharply up the side of the paper, showing no sign of pain or irritation at the paper-cut that now marred the side of his index finger.

Hermione looked on in mild horror as he dropped the paper and held out his right hand. "I healed you the other day," he reminded her. "Now it is your turn to return the favor." He shrugged. "A paper-cut is minor—if you cannot heal it, I simply will instead. Now try."

Hermione gingerly reached out and took his hand, folding her own fingers around his. Hermione was a frequent sufferer of paper-cuts, and she knew that while they were very far-removed from life-threatening, they still stung worse than most larger cuts. And to do it purposefully, and so _casually_—physical pain meant nothing to him, she realized.

Tom's hands were clean and well-maintained, she noted. Even, short fingernails, no calluses on the fingertips or palm. She noticed Tom's amused smirk after a few moments of inactivity and set herself to work, feeling the magic inside of her respond to her desire to heal him. She brushed her own fingertips over his, watching as the thin line of red seemed to seal itself up until nothing remained but clear, unbroken skin.

"Nice work," he told her, removing his hand from within her protective grasp, still feeling the impression of her touch lingering on his skin like an itch.

"Practice more on your own," he told her. "Perhaps next week we will graduate you to something a bit more impressive, hmm?"

"Yes," she said. "I would like that."

With a slight yet genuine smile and without another word she left the room, leaving him alone with two matching green cushions; one occupied, one not. He glanced at the space she had so recently inhabited, wondering just how he had let himself become involved to such a degree. It would be worth it, in the end—nothing this good ever came without effort, he reminded himself again.

Theirs was a relationship of complexity and potential—he was building ever higher towards the sky, forgetting about the foundation underneath.

It was like a castle built upon the sand. The structure was magnificent, breathtakingly immense and detailed, arched bridges and towers and intricate stonework. The foundation was crumbling to pieces underneath; no matter how pretty the castle was, it could not make up for this.

* * *

**Monday, March 12, 1945**

**7:21pm **

He had ordered the book specially from an antique magical bookseller who owed him a favor and promised him that his deliverance would not disappoint. Tom was wary of the proprietor but knew that the tome in question would be of undeniable assistance in his endeavors.

He had taken an unusual course of action; Tom was well acquainted with several employees of the Department of Mysteries, whose research delved so deeply into the strange and unknown depths of magic—the ancient and the powerful. It was one such recommendation that had led him to this particular book, and this particular spell.

He opened it, looking past the heavy dust and heavier weight of the pages to the chapter marked '_The Wizarding Trace._'

He read the passage eagerly, index finger skimming over the lines, drawing the necessary conclusions as his eyes gleamed with the knowledge he uncovered.

To bring her to his time, he needed a way to anchor her here. He needed to build a _trace_ on her. And to do that, the current trace must first run out.

He frowned. He didn't know her age, _or_ her birthday, both necessary information in creating a new trace. He'd have to find out, and wait. It'd be a year or two, of that he was certain, but he'd need more than his own magic to draw upon to make it successful as well.

The answer was both glaringly obvious and aggravatingly difficult.

He would create his second Horcrux from the Slytherin locket, and with its power, he would create a new trace for Hermione, binding her to him. To his time. She would be with him—at last.

* * *

A/N: I was very disappointed with the way that _Deathly Hallows _handled the explanation behind the idea of the Trace. I thought it was a really interesting idea with tons of potential, considering that it could be implied that the Trace could act more as a binding spell rather than a magical limitation—and then we learn it's more of an elaborate intimidation tactic designed by the Ministry to keep children from using their magic at home. Really? I find that unrealistic as the news would have gotten out eventually, plus I just love the idea of the Trace being abused in its most literal meaning. So, for plot purposes, I want to expound upon the what-could-have-been with regards to the missed potential behind the idea of the Trace (and in an unrelated note, I just recently saw the trailer for the _Deathly Hallows _film for the first time—it gave me chills. I want to see it so badly! It looks great! =D)

In addition, sticking to my theme of updating on holidays (ha! xD) today happens to be my birthday! Favor me with a delicious review, or some chocolate cake?

~Kako

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_Anonymous review replies:_

Anonymous: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far—I hope this chapter didn't disappoint! =)

Areej: Planting ideas in her head? That sounds like Inception! (haha, just ignore that, I saw that movie for my birthday and now it's all I've got in my head xD [to the rest of the readers: Kako highly recommends xD]) But now that's the real question—what will Hermione do when she finds out? How will she find out? We've got a few chapters to go for that, but I'm planning something epic!

Prissy: Thanks so much for your review! Hopefully this fast update agrees with you, yes?

Neko girl: Thank you!

A. Nymous: Heehee, I like your pen-name! You're lovin' it? *sings McDonald's theme song* ... xD Anyway, thanks for your review! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!


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